


Frozen Wastelands

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Romance, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Sherlock does not return back to England after taking down Moriarty's network.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Holmescest Works [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 77
Kudos: 192





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Procrastinating on writing, by doing some other writing. This fic is mostly finished however!  
> There's nothing explicit that I currently have written, but I will leave a warning if there is anything M/E that happens. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Emptiness.

Perhaps, this is what people expect an ‘Iceman’ to ‘feel’. 

There is nothing. 

No happiness. No sadness. No anger. 

Just… nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

A machine constantly on the go. An automaton analyzing the data, weighing the risks and benefits and mercilessly executing whatever needed to be done. 

For Queen and Country. 

God. 

How he wishes he could feel! 

Like how his parents (even Father!) had broken down when he had laid down the news as gently as he possibly could. 

Mummy had wept openly. Father had tried to remain stoic, but Mycroft could see the cracks that had gradually formed with every word he had spoken. The glistening of unshed tears. The deepening of the lines on his face. Before the dam finally was breached. 

No parent should ever have to outlive their children. 

How the pathologist had collapsed when she had realized the truth. 

She had hidden the truth faithfully for three years now; the reality behind Sherlock’s fateful jump of Bart’s. But all for naught.

Unlike Mummy, she didn’t weep. 

No. 

She was silent. Like a mouse. She had known the risks. And before she had left with a terse ‘Thank you’, she had looked into Mycroft’s eyes for verification – and had immediately averted her gaze. 

He still wonders what exactly she had seen in his eyes and had caused her to leave posthaste. 

The absence of feeling? 

Or the irises of someone who had felt too much?

There will be no funeral this time around. There is no body to recover. 

Only ashes. 

Somewhere in Serbia. The outskirts of Belgrade. 

His discreet agents had examined the extensive rubble. 

The virtually indestructible microchip that had been implanted in Sherlock’s neck had shown that this is his brother’s final resting spot and there’s no refuting this evidence. 

The fire, by the accounts of witnesses and videos taken at the scene, had started with a massive explosion followed by a series of smaller ones and then a massive blaze that consumed everything in its path. 

The firefighters had struggled immensely to put out the flames. 

The official story released to the public had been that an unfortunate warehouse fire that had ignited inappropriately stored ammonium nitrate in the vicinity.

This had been the last cell. Mycroft had been readying for little brother’s return. 

But he will never come back now. 

Not even his ashes. 

One of his agents had brought him back an urn, but Mycroft is sure that none of the debris contained within actually consisted of the matter that had once made up his brilliant little brother. 

Sherlock. 

He pops open the cork to the most ludicrously expensive bottle of scotch he owns. A bottle of Bowmore 1957. Material possessions mean nothing anyways in the long run. Decanting the precious liquid into a tumbler, he drains it in one go – feeling the alcohol burn down his throat. 

Why did he let his brother go on this mission? 

Three years is way too long for anyone. Especially his little brother, who is not a trained agent of the MI6. It’s impressive that he had made it this far (to the bitter end), but that thought offers Mycroft little comfort. 

Pouring another tumblerful of scotch, he downs it. 

***

Mummy and Father are avoiding him. 

Dr. Hooper resembles a wraith. Like death herself as she deals with her deceased clientele. 

Dr. Watson had moved on. He had gone through the steps of mourning rather akin to a grieving widow. From visiting Sherlock’s fake grave every day to developing a drinking problem that rivaled his sister’s to becoming engaged to a nurse. He had moved out of Baker Street half a year after little brother had jumped.

As had the Detective Inspector, reinstated to his original position at the Met. 

He had gone to see their sister at Sherrinford too. 

She had known it as soon as he had stepped forth toward her cell. That grim little smile on her face. For once her eyes weren’t hateful, but rather – almost gleeful. Mycroft had never felt such an urge to throttle someone in his life. 

And he understood then – that this had all been her doing. 

Five minutes with fucking Moriarty. 

So long ago.

She had won. 

And finally, he had gone down to Baker Street after having gathered the courage to do so. The ghosts of memory seem to haunt here. A mausoleum for his brother’s spirit. 

Mrs. Hudson looks older and frailer compared to when Mycroft had seen her last. 

He had terminated the lease to Baker Street, reluctantly thrown out a lot of Sherlock’s belongings and had selectively taken the things that his brother had held dear. His Strad. Compositions. The skull – Billy. The periodic table. His microscope. The laptop. A boxful of newspaper clippings on the cases his brother had worked on and/or solved. A binder worth of publications related to forensic chemistry. The bedsheet he had worn to Buckingham Palace all those years ago. His favourite outfits. Mycroft had even taken the hair products that his brother had used. Amongst other things.

Today – three months after Sherlock’s ultimate disappearance from the world, he had gone to Baker Street for what is presumably the last time to return his keys. He makes sure to remove all the high-tech bugs in the flat. 

It’s so strange to be here knowing that his brother is no longer here. In this world. Not breathing the same air. Not seeing the same sun and moon. He stands in front of Sherlock’s favourite window, and spends an unmeasured amount of time watching the streetlife of London like his brother had done so many times. Idly deducing the goldfish. 

If he closed his eyes, he could see Sherlock so vividly in his mind. Scowling. Trying to refuse the case that Mycroft would have brought him. But they both know that Sherlock would end up taking it. 

If he listens hard enough, he could hear his brother run up the stairs – an expression of childlike glee imposed over his features. The excitement of having solved an intriguing case. 

Fuck, he would even take a diet joke. Even though these jokes had disappeared over their last few months together.

“I miss you.” Mycroft finds himself whispering to the window panes. 

The ice that had encased his heart when he had initially found out his brother’s fate begins to crack and thaw. 

Torrents of memory rush into his mind. 

Of him meeting little brother for the first time. The awkward little bundle that Mummy had given him to hold. 

“Protect him always, Mycroft.” She had said. 

And Mycroft could feel failure keenly down to the depths of his marrow. Or perhaps, down to the very molecules that make up the building blocks of his own existence. Mycroft had loved Sherlock when he had first seen him – the glimmer of blue-green that betrayed an intelligence that Mycroft had been searching for his entire life. 

A kindred spirit. 

He had rocked him, sang and hummed little lullabies – some of his own creation – fed him with many a bottle. Sherlock’s first word had been ‘Myc!’ and he had been so thrilled. He had told him stories – looked after him in every way it was possible for an older brother, and in return he had learned how to experience the world through Sherlock’s playful eyes. 

Of love. 

Of brotherhood. 

Images of Lock growing up rapidly course through his mind – a lovable toddler, an inquisitive boy – a destroyed one when their sister had drowned Redbeard – and that had been the beginning of the end. Sherlock had forgotten everything, and was particularly hostile to anything that could serve as a trigger for remembering his buried memories. 

Including Mycroft himself.

It had been painful then, but it is nothing compared to the numbness he feels now. The frozen wasteland that had replaced his heart. 

Soon he sees his brother – shortly before his jump off Bart’s. 

Sherlock had given him a hug – a genuine one. One full of affection.

“See you on the other side.” He had whispered, his breath hot against the sensitive curve of Mycroft’s ear. 

And those were the last  _ precious _ words he would ever hear from his brother. 

They had grown closer over the months of scheming. Planning for Moriarty’s downfall. Sharing meals. Even making them together at times. Laughs. Talking about their days. Playing board games like they had loved to do as children. There is even a pair of plain goldfish that swim in Mycroft’s bedroom. Sherlock had brought them to him as a joke, but Mycroft loved them. It had brought him immense comfort over the years where Sherlock had been gone, but still – alive.

And those tears… those tears that Mycroft had longed for seem to form at last. And quietly he finds himself weeping, letting the drops fall unimpeded on his cheek and course downward. 

He’s alone now. 

There will be no one else who walks on this Earth that knows roughly what it is like to be him. 

For the first time he thinks of those poisons that they give agents for certain missions, just in case there is no recourse. 

And he would like a capsule. 

Now perhaps. 

He would take it with a draught of that fine scotch he had uncorked a month ago. 

His eyes would close, and he would hope that Sherlock is the last person he will ever see.

***

Sherlock appears vividly in his dreams. 

Sometimes. 

Sometimes as a solemn figure draped only in his bedsheet, sitting on Mycroft’s nightstand. His hands clasped. His dear face in deep thought. 

Or they would be playing chess, and Sherlock would knock over the board childishly when he is about to lose, saving Mycroft the bother of saying ‘checkmate’. 

They could be standing at the edge of a cliff – and high above them in the skies – the Aurora Borealis dances while seawater relentless crashes down below against the shoreline. 

There are other permutations, but what they all have in common, is that whenever Mycroft tries to speak in any one of them – the dream ends, and Mycroft will wake. 

Feeling like he had ruined something beautiful.

*** 

Then one night – in his dreams, his brother stands in front of him. 

Dressed. 

There is something in his eyes. 

Something bright. 

Incandescent. 

Unknown. 

Dangerous. 

Mycroft had felt a twinge of this before. 

Before Sherlock had left, but he – the master of denying himself (for the greater good) – had pushed it down, thinking it absolutely foolish. But alas, there had been moments just like this, but they had waited and let it fizzle out on its own. 

But now, the tension  _ (want) _ between them seems to grow and grow – and Mycroft almost gasps aloud when Sherlock  _ (finally)  _ closes the gap and kisses him. 

Mycroft had been with men before, but this is nothing like what he had ever experienced. He has a delicious warm armful of little brother, and they are kissing and kissing – so much so that Mycroft is dizzy. 

Dizzy with want. 

Dizzy with hypoxia. 

And then – something soft and tender meets his bottom lip – and it is Sherlock’s tongue – gently caressing him. And when they break, Mycroft cannot help but to utter ‘Sherlock’ – and soon he finds himself thrown cruelly back on his lonely bed.

His lips tingle with the ghost of their last kiss.

***

This cannot be healthy. Wanting to sleep all the time. Just in case he would meet Sherlock again in his dreams. It’s not helping him move on. But rather fueling something that Mycroft would have never dared to entertain had Sherlock been alive. 

He could see the sorry look in Anthea’s eyes every time he passes by her desk. The concern on her face. He knows that she knows that Sherlock’s death has made him consider following his brother, but she doesn’t dare approach the topic. 

His job, once intriguing to him, is something he does on autopilot. 

Everything is white, grey and black. 

It’s as if Sherlock had taken all the vibrancy of colour in Mycroft’s life in death. The only time he feels alive  _ (ironically) _ is when he dreams of Sherlock. Even with his eidetic memory, things get inevitably corrupted, and he finds himself losing or misremembering minute details of his brother as time mercilessly marches onwards. 

His voice, for instance. Losing the cadence. The pitch. 

It is like trying to gather water in his hands. A futility. 

He finishes his duties for the day. 

Today he has an appetite for dinner, so he orders fish and chips from his favourite chippy. 

He eats unhealthily. And there are days that he doesn’t eat much at all. He drinks too much. He’s picked up smoking again – for who fucking cares about health and longevity? 

Then he showers and turns himself in. 

***

“Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft…” Sherlock calls his name for the first time in his dreams, and somewhere in Mycroft’s brain, he frantically tries to preserve it. 

It’s not real. He knows. His brother had never spoken his name in such ways – the way of a lover. Occasionally, Mycroft wonders if he’s corrupting his own memory of little brother in this way. Or that he’s reading too much into certain situations that had transpired when Sherlock had been alive. But, this thought leaves him when Sherlock’s hand – feeling so delightfully solid – presses firmly against his chest, and he speaks once more.

“Stop thinking, Mycie. Life is too short for that.” 

The words hurt – like someone taking a knife, stabbing him and twisting the blade deep. 

Does his Sherlock know that he isn’t alive anymore? And that nickname! He hasn’t heard it since his adolescence! Before Redbeard had drowned. 

But Sherlock’s lips meet his, and it is bliss. Like a home-coming. 

This is home. 

They are outside. In a city. It’s hard to say where, although the signage appears to be in French. The roads are paved with stone, and they are standing at the mouth of an alleyway. His brother is still caressing Mycroft’s chest, and there is a happy little hum he makes as he rests his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. A fondness perfuses Mycroft’s chest, its intensity so strong that it literally takes his breath away. 

There are artists hawking their goods and practicing their art. Food stalls selling crepes, kebabs and ice cream are aplenty. He has so many questions, but he dare not speak. 

It’s warm and lovely – and incest couldn’t possibly be illegal in a dream – can it? 

Sherlock holds his hand now, and Mycroft finds himself being pulled toward a gelato shop, and before he knows it – he’s sharing a watermelon gelato with his brother, taking turns licking at the cone. 

God. It feels so real. This world of his own creation. Little brother’s hand feels warm in his own, eliciting a feeling a comfort that he hadn’t known in a long time. Perhaps – back to when they had been children. Before their lives had been ripped to shreds by the blows of the East Wind. 

They walk for a bit longer, the busy streets giving way to idyllic neighbourhoods and greenery. 

And all too soon, Sherlock looks at him with a strange sort of sadness – pecks at Mycroft cheek, and seconds later Mycroft is rudely awakened by the sunlight for he had forgotten to draw the curtains the night before. 

***

“Sir.” Anthea’s voice brings him back from a daydream. 

There’s something in it that warrants his full attention, so Mycroft tries hard to focus. 

“Would you take a look at this?” 

Mycroft takes what she offers. 

Stills from CCTV. A picture of a passport. Two men standing at the border control booth. It takes him quite a while to realize. One of the men kind of looks like his brother. Impossible. He thinks. But the face. Those zygomatic arches. The eyes. But… scars! Shrapnel wounds on approximately half the man’s face that have mostly healed. The hair is cut ruthlessly short, and he looks ill. Weak. As if he hadn’t stood on his own legs for days and weeks until this trip to… the airport?

The passport isn’t one of the false documents that Mycroft had provided his brother. It is another man’s clever work. And the picture on it looks almost exactly like Sherlock’s had looked on his official passport. Faris Wilhelm Mitchell. The other man seems to be supporting the man – like a caregiver of sorts. He is young and rather handsome. A nurse by trade, Mycroft deduces. 

A Swede.

His stomach unexpectedly turns – feeling a jealousy twist within him. 

But why? If this is truly his brother – why would he surface six months later? And the chip? Sherlock must have deliberately removed it then. A procedure with its own risks. 

Again… why? 

Why fake his death? 

“Sir?” Anthea interrupts his thoughts after a long time has passed.

“Where did you get this?” Mycroft asks, his voice hoarse to his own ears.

“Luck.” Anthea smiles in a way that makes Mycroft not believe her. She has her own ways of operating that differ from Mycroft’s. “Taken at Frankfurt. I suppose you would like me to track them down, sir?”

“That would be prudent. Yes.” His voice shakes, and Anthea places her hand against his forearm – offering an uncharacteristic comfort. 

God. He owes her. Perhaps a large supply of chocolate wouldn’t go amiss. 

“Perhaps, sir – you should go home. I can handle everything from here.” 

Mycroft doesn’t argue. He knows that he is in no fit state to work. 

It is only ten in the morning, but he packs up and leaves without another word. 

***

Sherlock is back again in his dreams. They are sharing a bed. Lock is wearing a silky bathrobe this time; the dark material contrasting beautifully with his alabaster skin. 

At first, Mycroft feels a sense of anger.

_ How could you, brother mine?!? _

It’s the same dirty trick that they had played on all of Sherlock’s friends. 

But it quickly dissipates. 

A hurt, unlike the pain he had felt before, throbs within him. It’s not hard to deduce that Sherlock had been badly wounded from the aftermath of Serbia. But that can’t be the reason why he had chosen to fake his death… no, the removal of the chip signifies premeditation before the explosion. And again he is left with the question –  _ why…? _

“Mycie.” Sherlock’s hands are touching his shoulders. “The answer is simple.” 

The answer to what? His question? He looks at Sherlock, letting his feelings show on his face. Pain. Sadness. Affection.  _ I love you. _ He thinks, letting his own hand push his brother down onto the bed. 

His brother goes down willingly, and Mycroft is snogging him – trying to put all the feelings he cannot say into physical touch. He tugs at the tie that holds the bathrobe together, causing it to part – revealing pristine beautiful flesh. His hands caress flesh, worshipping it – his lips peppering exposed skin with kisses. Does he really want to make love to his brother like this? In his dreams? Or does he want to save it – and see if he could have the real thing? 

Surprisingly, it is Sherlock that stops him before he could proceed further. 

There is a look in his eyes – of trepidation. Of worry. 

Of an affection that is mirrored in Mycroft’s own eyes. 

“Come find me then, big brother.” Sherlock sits up, and puts his bathrobe to rights, his voice soft. Tender in a way Mycroft had never known it could be. “But I will never return back to London. Or step foot in England ever again. It’s best to leave the past untouched. Enshrined in memory. Nothing can ever be what it used to be.” 

_ But what about everyone else you cared about?  _

_ Loved? _

Sherlock simply gives him one last bittersweet look, and Mycroft’s alarm goes off – forcing him back into reality. 

***

Sherlock doesn’t visit him again in his dreams. 

***

Mycroft feels as if he has reached the end of the world. 

He had known that it would be cold, but not  _ this  _ cold. He is wearing four layers of clothing, aside from his heavy-duty boots, hat, gloves and balaclava. The sun shines high above – but he knows the daylight hours are shrinking here with every passing day. 

There is something devastatingly gorgeous about the landscape, with its sheer cliffs, the mountains – the glacial ice. 

The village is quaint with its houses painted in bright colours. It is remote enough that to get here – Mycroft had to borrow a snowmobile upon arriving at the airport. The pack he carries on his back is heavy – and he is weary – for the journey had been long. 

He had talked to the villagers – in a mixture of Danish and English – and eventually he had found the information he had needed. A recluse living in a house of red at the outskirts of the village. A man with scars that hardly ever leaves it, paying the locals to bring the things that he had needed to his door. 

It saddens him. That this is the state of affairs for his little brother. Apparently some of the village children often play a game of daring to see who can go closest to the house for a glimpse of this mysterious scary man. 

Sherlock could have gone anywhere else in the world, but here? 

In this harsh environment? 

A far cry to what little brother had been used to back in England. 

Does his brother even want to see him? After all, he had taken such pains to fake his death and set up a new way of life in this isolated part of the world. He only has dream-Sherlock’s word that his brother would like to see him again. Regardless, Mycroft would have come here. He would give much to catch one last glimpse of his beloved brother. No matter what the price is. 

When the red-painted house comes into view, Mycroft parks his snowmobile, and makes the rest of the way by foot. He stops part way – just a few metres from the door. 

Nerves. He doesn’t know what he would find here. 

The man might not even be Sherlock. Perhaps just a figment of his desperate imagination. That wants his brother to be alive. And well. 

And happy. 

Just before he reaches the porch, the door suddenly swings open.


	2. Chapter 2

It is not Sherlock that greets him at the door. 

A middle aged woman regards him with great suspicion. There is something about her that reminds Mycroft of Mrs. Hudson. She clearly doesn’t live here. In one hand she holds a broomstick and it does not look like she’s afraid to use it to chase Mycroft off. 

At her inquiring glance, Mycroft quickly finds words to say. “I am looking for someone I used to know. Perhaps… he goes by the name of Faris?” 

Before she could attempt to shut the door, there is the familiar chirp of an incoming text. The woman quickly pulls out her phone and checks the screen. 

“Come in then.” She says somewhat reluctantly. Shaking her head, she remarks. “He never has visitors. Only nosy village-folk. Or deliveries. Sometimes they are one and the same.” 

Mycroft shuts the door behind him, and is bidden to remove his shoes and outerwear. He places his heavy pack on the ground. 

There is no sign of Sherlock. 

Not even the sound of footsteps approaching him, yet – somewhere deep in his desolate heart, he could sense his brother’s presence somewhere in this large lonely house. He rubs his hands together, getting some feeling back in his cold extremities. The house is warm and toasty, and Mycroft soon finds himself sitting at a modern-styled table next to the kitchen. The dining table. 

“Hungry?” 

His stomach makes itself known before he could refuse. 

God. He is so tired. 

A nap would be nice too. 

But, most importantly, he wants to see his brother. 

“You must have traveled far.” 

Mycroft snaps his attention back to the housekeeper. No. This isn’t her usual job. She’s a chef. There is East Asian blood running within her, but then again there’s a sizable population of Asians – notably Thais who have immigrated here over the years – seeking a better life. 

“Yes, I have.” He says quietly as the woman heats up some food using the microwave. “But, I would have traveled any distance to see him.” 

Something seems to thaw within the housekeeper. 

She says kindly. “You will have to allow some patience. He is… rather skittish. Doesn’t like people looking at him. I only come two or three times a week to clean and bring food, and I think that is already testing his limits.” 

“Understood.” Mycroft sighs deeply. 

What has Sherlock experienced over the course of dismantling Moriarty’s web? Even though Sherlock’s life had dealt with the lowest of the low and violence, this ‘adventure’ as Sherlock had called it is sure to be a different kettle of fish altogether. 

“You like sashimi?” She asks.

At Mycroft’s nod, she brings over a plate bearing an assortment of raw seafood sitting on top of a bed of crushed ice. Tender looking shrimp, slices of fresh caught fish and even pieces of what Mycroft suspected to be whale – a staple of these barren lands. 

He picks up the chopsticks and dips the morsels into the dish of soy sauce mixed with a bit of wasabi. Soon, the rest of the meal is laid out in front of him: redfish and rice topped with a coconut curry, a spicy Thai soup and some crispy spring rolls. 

“What name does he go by now?” Mycroft asks as he indulges in the delicious Thai-inspired food. 

“Wilhelm or Will. But even I can tell that’s not his real name.” She sits down across from him. “I am worried about him. As is Father. We met him when he first arrived, you see. He figured out why the till in our restaurant never added up without too much of a scandal.”

Ah, that sounded like the Sherlock he had known. 

“So, he does go out.” Mycroft deduces.

“Rarely. And if he does, it’s usually into the wilderness. For walks to the shore. To the glacial fields. I try to make him text me when he goes, so we know. Such outings are not without risk. But that’s a challenge in itself.” 

Mycroft could imagine. 

As beautiful as the frigid landscape is, it is treacherous. Melting glaciers, cliff edges – fragile ice. Not to mention the cold. He is glad then, that there are people looking after his brother here. 

And then he wonders, how did little brother afford all of this? 

Did he squirrel dirty money away to offshore accounts while taking down Moriarty’s web? 

These houses aren’t exactly cheap, and he doubts Sherlock is renting. 

After he eats the hearty meal, the housekeeper takes him upstairs to a spare room with a neatly made bed that had obviously never been slept in before and an adjoining loo – and bids him goodbye. 

Disappointed that Sherlock doesn’t seem to want to see him as much as he wanted to see him, Mycroft decides to take a much needed hot shower to wash away the grime of travel. He changes into the pyjamas that he had brought. 

There is WiFi in the house, so Mycroft quickly checks his emails before he decides to take a nap. 

***

Mycroft doesn’t dream, but when he wakes up next – he almost screams. 

Because sitting next to him in the bed is a man dressed in black from head to toe. 

Black socks, black pyjama bottoms, black jumper and… a balaclava that covers his face. In the man’s lap is a striped grey tabby cat – barely out of kittenhood – purring as a pale hand strokes its fur. 

The man’s eyes – although one appears slightly dimmed and cloudy – seem to be scrutinizing him – taking stock in all the changes that had happened over the last few years.

Damn. His brother had lost vision in that eye. 

“Sherlock.” He whispers, his voice hoarse. 

His brother looks away. Like what the housekeeper had said – there is a skittishness to Sherlock. Reminding Mycroft of a trapped feral animal. Mycroft longs to touch him, like he had done in his dreams – but he knows that this is a bad idea. 

_ Don’t go. _

He thinks, as Sherlock looks torn between staying and running out of the room. 

_ Stay please.  _

God. His brother had lost so much weight. He can easily see why the housekeeper had been worried. There is a frailness to Sherlock that he had never seen before. Like he’s a piece of paper that could be blown away by the merest of winds. 

Every brotherly instinct he has is screaming at him to whisk his brother away (well, this is as far one could get) and look after him.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock seems to savour the syllables in his name. 

The tabby leaps out of Sherlock’s lap and jumps to the wooden floor, before disappearing into the hallway. As if to give them some privacy. 

There seems to be conflicting desires warring within his brother. Mycroft sits up from the bed, leaning against the baseboard. And suddenly, he’s hugging his little brother. He wants to cry, because he would have done anything to have Sherlock back and alive. 

“You can remove this, you know – Sherlock. You are sweating.” He says as gently as he could – and Sherlock almost freezes. “I saw –”

“It’s not pretty.” Sherlock murmurs. “People stare at me. Children avoid me. It’s one thing to want to avoid society, but another if –” 

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Mycroft says. “I don’t care what you look like, Sherlock.”

Reluctantly, his brother pulls off the balaclava. He turns around as he does so – out of Mycroft’s arms. Unlike the severe hairstyle he had back in Frankfurt, the curls are abundant and wild. 

And when his brother slowly turns around, he could see the badly scarred portion of Sherlock’s face. It extended downward to his neck, and Mycroft doesn’t doubt that there’s more injuries down below. He tries not to react, but it’s impossible. 

“I didn’t run fast enough. The blast got me. I thought I had timed it right… but I didn’t account for my other injuries.” Sherlock closes his eyes, revisiting painful events that are probably best forgotten. “I was captured in Serbia, if your intelligence was lacking. Was too keen to be done, and I got caught. Should have waited.” 

“But, Lock – why? You removed the –”

“I know. I dug it out beforehand. With a surgical blade.” Sherlock points to a scar on his neck. 

And then he grows silent, avoiding the actual question. 

His brother looks incredibly pained. 

“Tell me.” Mycroft says.

It is a long while before Sherlock speaks. The words come out slowly. Pensive. 

“I can’t be what I was, Mycroft. I can’t run anymore. No more legwork. My leg was fucked by the shrapnel, if it wasn’t already messed up from the beatings I got. It was lucky they didn’t have to amputate. I can barely see out of my right eye. And… I’ve seen too much anyways. We are a cruel species, Mycroft. So much senseless suffering. I tried my best to help when I could. The victims. But it’s not enough. It could never be enough. And… some of our contacts were killed while helping me take down parts of the network. That was hard to take at times. It’s like being at war, brother. Or at least what I imagine war to be.” 

Sherlock is curled up against Mycroft again, letting his head rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. Cautiously, Mycroft strokes his brother’s sweaty curls, longing to do more than just touch. 

“That’s not everything. Most of that happened after the chip –”

“You are too smart for your own good, brother. Forget it. If I want to live in seclusion for the rest of my life, I am entitled to do so.” 

Sherlock pulls away from Mycroft – suddenly frigid in demeanour. 

His brother gets up from the bed with a wince, and limps out of the bedroom with as much dignity as he could muster.

Fuck. Mycroft sighs deeply to himself. For someone who is well-versed in wheedling information out of people, he had fucked that up rather badly. Had pushed too hard. It’s perhaps the angry part of him. The part that is furious with Sherlock for letting him believe that he was dead. 

But he has time. 

Well, providing that Sherlock doesn’t kick him out of the house.

Oh, bloody fuck. He hadn’t even considered that possibility. 

*** 

Stupid. 

Sherlock scolds himself as he limps back to his room. He should have told Malai to send Mycroft away. It had been a moment of weakness. Of course, he had known that it was his brother at the door. Despite the layers of clothes that Mycroft had on, there was no mistaking his identity from the camera he had installed at the front door. Idiotic to think Mycroft wouldn’t have found out what he had done. 

That he had faked his death… again. 

There is the sound of scratching against his bedroom door, and Sherlock sighs as he lets his cat in. Ragnar. The barbarian as Sven had called him. The man who had found Sherlock in the rubble, bleeding slowly to death after the explosion. Later Sherlock had hired him to nurse him back to health – and Sven had come all the way here with him and helped him set up before returning to Serbia. 

But. 

Fuck. 

He missed his brother. 

With every atom of his being. 

It had been amazing what a few short months of being stuck together – planning for Moriarty’s downfall – had done for their relationship. It had been so awkward at the beginning. Sherlock curbing his acerbic and biting comments; Mycroft completely out-to-sea in terms of how to deal with a less hostile version of him. 

Things slowly got better. They became less guarded around each other… and Sherlock found himself enjoying his brother’s company. It was like… meeting a stranger and getting to know them. Two people having some fun with each other. Of course, they had their work, but that had only been part of their evenings and the occasional weekend together – when John had been out, or Sherlock could come up with a plausible excuse to leave the flat for a day or two or three. 

How  _ gorgeous _ Mycroft had looked under the sunlight when he had laughed genuinely for the first time in Sherlock’s presence in so long. They had been eating lunch out on Mycroft’s fancy backyard patio the first Saturday that Sherlock had visited. A patio that Sherlock is sure gets seldomly used. If ever. Big brother had undone his tie, unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, and removed his waistcoat – looking as approachable as Sherlock had ever seen him. 

He closes his eyes, willing the memories to go away. 

But they persist. 

Small wonder, for Sherlock – during both his mission and his arduous recovery – had allowed himself to indulge in the past at opportune times. Some days he would take a visit to Baker Street. Have tea with Mrs. Hudson. Enjoy domestics with John. Or he would visit Lestrade and rehash some of his most memorable cases with the copper who had given him a chance so long ago. 

And then, as time went on – he started seeing Mycroft more often in his mind. Especially during the hardest and darkest moments. His mind-Mycroft deducing alongside him, helping him figure out solutions to tight life-threatening problems along the way. Telling him that he must go on. That he could succeed despite the odds. Mycroft keeping him company while he had been recovering from his torture, infection and blast injuries when Sven wasn’t visiting him in the hospital, or tending to him afterwards when he had been discharged. 

The truth is bitter. 

Sherlock limps over to the large window where the sea could be seen. 

The harsh icy landscape reflects his heart. 

For what can never be. 

He might have never been in a romantic relationship with anyone, but he had recognized the signs of attraction in himself. And perhaps, even in Mycroft. 

Sometimes – there had been moments between them before Sherlock had jumped from Bart’s. Moments where it seemed where they were in the inbetween. Straddling the divide between two universes. Where in one – they were brothers. And in the other… lovers. Alas, these moments would pass. 

Mycroft never acted on them and pretended that they never happened. Sherlock had been… incredibly confused. But he had buried his confusion, considering that they had more important fish to fry. 

Sherlock had indulged once. The night before he had left. When he was saying goodbye to his brother. He had hugged Mycroft. His brother had been stiff, but before Sherlock could back away – Mycroft had thawed and had drawn him in for the tenderest of embraces. 

_ “See you on the other side.” _ Sherlock had said before he had gotten the courage to finally leave. 

Mycroft hadn’t said anything. But the look on his brother’s face is one that Sherlock would remember forever. Till his dying day. Sadness. Pride. Brotherly affection. And… if Sherlock dared to be fanciful – longing. 

Then, Sherlock had walked out of Mycroft’s house. 

He didn’t dare look back. 

Fuck it all. 

Sherlock knows his brother. Mycroft would always do the right thing. For the better good. And that involves not getting into incestuous relationships. His superior brain would no doubt delete such taboo sentiments as soon as they surfaced into the forefront of his consciousness. ‘

Hasn’t that been what big brother had always told him in the past? 

_ Don’t get involved.  _

_ Caring is not an advantage.  _

_ Don’t get attached. _

Or some variation of these words. 

Isn’t that ironic! 

Sherlock had mused time and time again. That he had resented and pushed away his brother for the majority of his adult years, and then suddenly he has this need to be closer to him. And not in any innocent brotherly way… Mycroft probably had wanted a better fraternal relationship with him at the outset, but no more than that. And that had led to his initial decision to not return. If his brother had ignored all the signs when he had been back in England, it would only be anguish that Sherlock would have to endure. If almost four years away was not enough to diminish his affections for his brother, it’s not going to get any better on his return. 

God. He would be no better than Molly! 

He buries his hands in his face, as he sits on the cushions on the windowsill. His palms feeling the contour of every scar carved onto his flesh. 

“Mrowr.” Ragnar butts Sherlock’s feet, before leaping up to the windowsill. 

“It’s just you and I.” Sherlock gently combs through the cat’s fur when he curls up onto his lap. 

The cat nuzzles at Sherlock’s other hand fondly. Sven had found Ragnar when Sherlock had moved here. A family was giving away kittens, and the man had brought the tabby home and insisted that Sherlock take him. 

Sherlock had misgivings. He is a dog-person. He loves dogs. 

Cats were aloof and too independent. Up to no good. Sherlock had thought, but Ragnar… had snuck his way into Sherlock’s heart. The cat never let Sherlock mope for too long, demanding his attention with  _ cute _ antics and cuddles. Some days – after Sven had left – it is only the fact that Ragnar needs to be fed and watered that coaxes Sherlock out of bed. 

Then Malai had thought Ragnar needed more stimulation and forced her carpenter by trade brother to build a cat ‘playground’ throughout the house, filled with perches, catwalks, bridges, cat-houses and other enticing elements. It is possible for Ragnar to make his way to the kitchen from the second floor landing without touching the floor. And then she brought him an aquarium with a pair of koi from their restaurant tank. Meddling woman! But Ragnar enjoyed both additions, and Malai had brought him many other things to make his large house more of a home. 

Plants. Furnishings. Ornaments. For instance. 

And Sherlock is always trying to sneak her more of his money. 

A tear streaks down from Sherlock’s almost blinded eye. God. He’s hideous. He knows. His body is more scar tissue than normal flesh. 

It isn’t so bad when it’s just him and Ragnar, but with Mycroft wondering about in his house… he’s never been so acutely aware of the fact. His face scares people. Sven and Malai had never been bothered, but Mycroft had reacted. It’s hard to read what exactly Mycroft had thought of his facial scars. His brother might have seen a picture of him afar, but seeing him in person is a different matter. 

Even if his brother would be interested in a relationship, Sherlock is sure his injuries would be a massive turnoff. 

How handsome his brother had looked – even in repose! 

Sherlock couldn’t help himself – when he had figured Mycroft had turned himself in for a nap, he had snuck into his bedroom and sat next to him in the bed – refamiliarizing himself with Mycroft. The specifics of his face. How he smelled. How unguarded he looked in his sleep. 

So much mesmerizing detail to store in his mind. 

But most importantly, he wanted to be close to him. And when Mycroft had awoken, Sherlock had felt he was trapped in a fantasy. Things didn’t seem real. So he had reacted rather thoughtlessly. Taking off his balaclava. Throwing himself into his brother’s arms. 

Ridiculous. 

They weren’t lovers separated for several years. 

They were brothers. 

Mycroft had come to figure out why Sherlock had faked his death. And hell would Sherlock ever let him know. It would destroy him. His brother would be disgusted and leave. Tarnishing the memories and fantasies that Sherlock lives with. 

Well. Mycroft has a job. Sherlock reflects grimly. He would just have to keep shut like a clam until Mycroft had to go back eventually. He is the British government after all… 

How long could Britain stand without its puppetmaster anyways?

***

There is no sign of Sherlock for the rest of the evening. 

Mycroft makes himself at home – taking his laptop downstairs with him to do his share of the work. For someone who stays primarily in his bedroom, the rest of Sherlock’s house is furnished tastefully and cozily, making one forget about the frigid environment outside. 

He had reheated a container of pad thai and some of the spicy soup that he had for lunch from the fridge at dinner. The housekeeper would bring more food tomorrow, as she had only brought enough for Sherlock – even though by her expression, Mycroft could tell Sherlock probably wouldn’t even eat half of it. 

She had shown him where the spare key to the house is located, so Mycroft could go freely as he pleased – in the case that Sherlock never leaves his room. Mycroft pokes his toes into the polar bear rug in the living room, feeling the softness of the fur between his digits.

He is here for the long haul. Mycroft could already sense that. Who knows the extent of the damage his brother’s (mis)adventures had inflicted on his mind and body! Anthea had told him to take all the time he needed; she would man the ship as well as she could. The Prime Minister hadn’t been happy, but well – one couldn’t have everything in life! 

Of course, everyone else that cared about his existence had been told that Mycroft needed time off for his own mental health – which had clearly been declining ever since Sherlock had faked his death for the second time. He will get to the bottom of his brother’s issues. He has to. Even though his gut tells him that what dream-Sherlock had said was true. That little brother will never set foot in England again. And that saddens him immensely. 

“Mrowr!” 

The cat that Sherlock had been petting earlier strides into the living room. His steps are elegant, and his long striped tail swishes this way and that. The blue eyes look inquisitively at Mycroft, and his whiskers seem to twitch with intelligence. Little brother’s lone companion. The keeper of his brother’s secrets. 

The cat stretches out, sniffing the air, before walking closer toward Mycroft. 

“What’s your name?” Mycroft wonders out loud.

The cat leaps up onto the couch. There is a tag clipped on his collar, bearing an address and a phone number. On the other side, it bears the name ‘Ragnar’. 

So little brother had gone from pirates to vikings in his older age. The cat seems to deem him acceptable though, and Mycroft finds himself smiling when Ragnar curls up in his lap and accepts his pats – purring. 

If only the cat could speak. 

Mycroft sighs as he turns his attention back to his laptop. 

***

Ragnar smells of Mycroft. 

The traitor. 

Sherlock shakes his head as he slips under the covers for the night. 

The cat had probably snuck into Mycroft’s lap and enjoyed a good petting. Ragnar likes that. 

But the cat curls up next to his pillow as he likes to do, and all Sherlock falls asleep with the comforting scent of his brother in his nose. 

***

It’s odd. Mycroft is dreaming, but in his dreams – he is just standing a metre or so away from the bed he’s currently sleeping in. He is alone. The sun is shining outside – even though Mycroft knows that it is dark as hell in reality. It’s almost winter – and from what he knows, there are approximately six hours of sunlight they would get here around this time of year. 

That sensation of loneliness that had plagued him over the last few months after Sherlock’s death is back, having disappeared into the background when Mycroft had been eagerly preparing his journey to look for his brother with Anthea’s newfound intelligence. 

And now, he’s succeeded – yet even with his brother just down the hallway, he feels like the chasm between them seems just as wide as ever. 

It’s awful. He doesn’t know what to do to break through to his brother. 

He’s been here four days now, and he hasn’t seen Sherlock once since the bed incident. 

Sherlock hadn’t been cooped up in his room the entire time though. There is evidence of his day-to-day existence in the rest of the house. Dirty dishes in the sink (which Mycroft had washed). Ragnar’s food and water bowls refilled. The kitty litter changed. Drying paint over a canvas located at the back of the house. A view of the sea from a window. Probably from Sherlock’s own, as Mycroft had gone through every room in the house (aside from his brother’s) and could not find the vantage point being depicted. 

Yesterday, he had left Sherlock’s Strad (he had brought it all the way from England) in the living room, and the case had been moved when Mycroft had gone out for the first time since entering the house. 

As nice as Sherlock’s house is, he was getting antsy being inside all the time, so he had gone for a walk, exploring the village. He had bought some groceries (as much as he enjoyed Malai’s food, he wanted a plain old English fry-up in the morning with some milk), went to a toy shop (which also had a small selection of board games) and on a whim he had bought  _ Connect-Four _ . 

A little childish, but he wonders if Sherlock would bite. Before he had gone to bed, he had left the vertical yellow board on the island in the kitchen, and placed his first piece down the center. 

He’s desperate to make some sort of a connection. 

Sherlock. He could still feel his brother’s warm body in his arms. The way he had buried his face against Mycroft’s neck – seeming desperate to take in every bit of data that Mycroft had to offer. The whole scene had been surreal. A dream. Like the ones he had before dream-Sherlock had disappeared completely from his life. 

Come back! He wants to call out – wanting some version of Sherlock, be it the real deal or the one that had kept him company in his dreams over the past years to visit him again. 

Alas. There is no Sherlock that appears. 

And Mycroft soon wakes up. 

***

This is ludicrous. 

Sherlock examines the bright yellow  _ Connect-Four  _ board in the kitchen. 

What is his brother trying to do? 

Ragnar prowls around Sherlock’s feet, rubbing his face against Sherlock’s legs. Meowing. 

The cat is an excellent conversationalist and an even better listener.

He picks up one of the red pieces and drops it in before finding some frozen pork potstickers in the freezer to fry. Mycroft had gone grocery-shopping too – he could see. Eggs, bread, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans, bread – everything a Brit would like for breakfast. He picks up the 2% milk jug that Mycroft had bought and pours some for himself. 

When he has his fried potstickers and some Chinese vinegar to dip it in, he sits down at the table with a pair of wooden chopsticks to eat. 

How long is Mycroft going to stay here? Sherlock wonders. It’s been over half a week now, and Mycroft shows no signs of leaving. Sometimes, when Mycroft is downstairs, Sherlock would walk out of his room and to the bannisters of the landing – listening to Mycroft type away on his laptop, or even hold conference calls with various people. It’s soothing – to be able to hear his brother’s voice – for he had been beginning to forget what Mycroft actually sounded like. 

And Mycroft had brought him his violin! 

He had seen the case the day before. He had opened it, but hadn’t taken the instrument out, feeling like it was out of place. Like it had traveled from a different dimension – a different universe – to be here with him now. 

It’s been a year since Sherlock had touched a violin of any sort. 

His fingers had twitched to play, but he had closed the lid instead. 

Perhaps another day. 

Another part of him tells himself that he’s being stupid by avoiding his brother. Who knows when he will ever have this opportunity again? But the fear that Mycroft would find out his deepest and darkest secret, the fear of rejection and his brother’s disgust is too much. 

Too overwhelming. 

After he had eaten, he washes the pan, but leaves the plate and chopsticks in the sink. Mycroft would want to use the pan in the morning for his fry-up. Normally Malai would do the washing, but Sherlock has a feeling that Mycroft had done his dishes during the last few days. 

Then he scampers quietly off to his bedroom – navigating the stairs carefully just before Mycroft is due to wake up.

***

Little brother had risen to the bait. Mycroft places another black piece into the board with a satisfying clink. They continue exchanging moves like this throughout the day – Mycroft making sure he spends longer periods of time in his bedroom so that Sherlock would feel comfortable venturing out into the kitchen to put his next piece down. 

He allows Sherlock to win the first game.

In the evening, he hears Sherlock playing a haunting melody on his violin after warming up slowly with arpeggios and scales. An  _ Adagio _ derived from the fragments of the composer Albinoni’s work and assembled into a whole composition by another – Giazotto. 

He doesn’t know if he’s reading too much into the notes or that he is projecting his own feelings into Sherlock’s music, but all he could feel is sorrow and anguish in Sherlock’s playing. 

It’s heartbreaking to the point that Mycroft wants to escape and put on some noise-cancelling headphones, but all he could do is listen, entranced. 

His brother’s lament.

***

Sherlock is back. In his dreams. Mycroft sees him enter his bedroom. His brother looks tired. Wan. The limp is present. As is all his scars. 

There’s an odd beauty about Sherlock’s face – reminding Mycroft of Kintsugi – the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with gold. 

He stands at the foot of Mycroft’s bed, looking down at him. Solemnly. 

“What can I do to help you?” Mycroft whispers before shutting his mouth, remembering what had happened the last few times that he had spoken in his dreams. 

But the dream doesn’t fade this time. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his eyes look sad.

Downcast.

“I care about you, you know.” Mycroft’s words gain a little bit more confidence. “More than you will ever know.” 

It doesn’t change the expression on Sherlock’s face. Or the feeling in his eyes. 

_ The answer is simple. _ Sherlock had said in Mycroft’s last dream. 

But what was the answer? 

And the question? 

Mycroft still isn’t sure after all this time. 

“I will wait for you. You know.” Mycroft takes a deep breath. Even in his dreams, talking about sentiment is a difficult task. “I am not going to leave you like this. Sherlock.” 

Still, his brother remains unmoved. 

“I missed you. So much. I dreamed you know. About us.” Mycroft doesn’t know how much to divulge about the nature of some of these dreams. 

But he settles for three words.

“I love you.”

And then… darkness. 


	3. Chapter 3

Malai had suggested things for Mycroft to do and see around town to occupy himself. 

Not too far away is an iceberg laden portion of the bay, where he could watch those icy masses break off from the glaciers and float outward toward the open sea. Or he could watch the Aurora Borealis dance along the shore during a nighttime walk. There is also a series of hot springs he could get to by snowmobile. And dog-sleds – a popular hit with tourists who come here. It’s getting too close to winter for whale-watching or boat rides in the bay. 

Mycroft doesn’t go out to do any of that. It feels wrong to go out of his way to enjoy himself, while his brother is suffering in silence. 

This portion of the world is relatively dry with limited amounts of precipitation, but this fact is lost on him when a loud house-shaking boom causes him to jump. 

His eyes turn to the nearest window where he sees a jagged lightning bolt sizzle through the air, illuminating the sky with its purplish-white light. Followed by another earth-shattering rumble of thunder seconds later. The wind picks up and soon he can barely see a few metres out as a blizzard begins to blow. 

There isn’t much to do today. 

Mycroft is caught up for now in terms of his work, and he has no interest in getting further ahead. He had explored this house in its entirety, admiring the pieces of art that grace its walls, the knick-knacks and even the plants. Malai had been behind all this, Mycroft is sure. She takes delight in looking after the greenery in Sherlock’s house on the days she visits. Although Mycroft can’t help feeling that Sherlock takes a more active role in managing the day-to-day affairs of this house, and that it is his presence that has forced him into hiding. 

Damn. He’s making things harder for Sherlock. It saddens him immensely and he wonders for the first time if it is actually kinder to let his brother be. Time could heal him, or perhaps make him even more locked-in. He shakes his head. If he leaves, he knows he would regret it. 

And that dream… he had promised his dream-Sherlock that he wouldn’t leave.

Getting up from the comfortable couch, he strides toward the kitchen, intending to make a cuppa. The  _ Connect-Four  _ board still stands on the island. As he contemplates his next move in the game, the soft patter of paws hitting the floor interrupts. 

Ragnar had leapt from a wall-mounted platform to the tiled floor. 

“Yow!” The cat looks up at him. 

“Hullo, Ragnar.” 

“Yow-yow-yowl!”

_ Boom! _

The next hit of thunder seems to reverberate throughout the house, and suddenly the light goes out. 

Good god. Will the heat go out too? Mycroft wonders. There’s a fireplace in the living room with a stack of wood that Malai had brought the day before. He can hear the wind howl viciously outside, and glancing quickly at the windows of the kitchen, he can see hardly anything at all. 

“Mrowr!” 

“Ragnar?” Mycroft can hardly see in the dark. 

A soft furry head butts against his feet. 

“Yow!” Ragnar paws at Mycroft’s sock-clad feet. 

Pulling out his phone, Mycroft turns on the flashlight feature. 

“Mr-ow-yow!” 

“What is it?” Mycroft asks and Ragnar leaps back. 

The cat’s tail seems to point toward the staircase, and Mycroft deduces that Ragnar wants him to follow.

***

Sherlock’s never liked thunderstorms. Or rather the thundersnow. This is the first time the weather has turned nasty since he had stepped foot onto this icy land. He curls up tightly under his quilt and trembles whenever the thunder shakes the house. 

It reminds him of the day he had escaped that torturous cell. The last day of his mission. The loud explosion and the several smaller ones that followed. The sounds of screaming, and his own silent scream of agony when the shockwaves had caught up with him. Shattering glass, some of which had embedded itself deep within him, taking part of his vision and even damaging his leg which had already been lame from the torture that his captors had inflicted upon him. He had run far enough that he had escaped the noxious flames that followed. 

None of his captors had survived, but that is a small comfort. 

Loneliness fills his heart too. Ragnar isn’t even here. He had demanded to be let out of Sherlock’s room no less than fifteen minutes ago. Even his cat likes Mycroft more. 

He sighs. But then again, his brother is his favourite person too. It’s reasonable that Ragnar would love Mycroft. Plus, Mycroft wouldn’t be the one moping about. 

There’s a backup generator attached to the house, but Sherlock could hardly be arsed to leave his comfortable position and switch it on. As long as no one opened any doors or windows, the heat should remain trapped inside. He likes the darkness anyhow, it suits his gloomy pessimistic mood. 

His leg is hurting him too. The changes in atmospheric pressure is doing him no good. He has some hot packs in a drawer nearby, but he doesn’t want to leave his cocoon. 

Then there is a knock at his door. 

Shit. 

Mycroft. 

“Sherlock?” There is concern in his brother’s voice. 

This is the first time his brother had made an active attempt to seek him out. He is surprised Mycroft hasn’t tried sooner. There is nothing he wants more than to let him in. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he keeps mum – unsure what exactly his brother wants. Mycroft has been here for over a week now, and showed no signs of leaving. 

Perhaps, Mycroft would respect the sanctity of a closed door and let him be. 

No such luck. After a minute or so of Sherlock’s silence, Mycroft tries the doorknob and pushes the door open. 

***

His brother is curled up in what appears to be a fetal position beneath the quilt. 

Cautiously, Mycroft approaches the bed, trying to make out other details in the one room of this house he hasn’t been in. The curtains are drawn and there is a fish tank on one side of the room that reminds him of his own back in London. Slowly, he sits on the side of the bed and places his hand on the quilt, over Sherlock’s leg. 

He can feel his brother tremble at this indirect contact.

“Sherlock. Lock.” Mycroft’s soft words seem too loud. 

“Go away…” Sherlock mumbles, his voice muffled by the quilt. 

The words come out rather halfheartedly. 

“I will go away if you really want me to, Lock. Tell me if you truly want me to leave.”

This could easily backfire, but Mycroft is almost confident that his brother doesn’t want him to go. 

“Tell me.” Mycroft repeats himself. 

His brother’s curly head pokes out. 

“No. That’s not –” Sherlock shakes his head. “Mycroft…” He says hopelessly. 

Mycroft doesn’t think he’s ever heard the syllables of his name uttered with so much anguish. There seems to be many layers to whatever ails his brother. 

Sherlock wouldn’t even look at him.

“I want to help you, Lock.” He says as gently as he could.

“You can’t.” The words come immediately. “No one can.” 

“Try me.” 

“Mycroft… don’t. Please.” 

“It has nothing to do with your injuries.” 

“Mycroft…” 

“You made the decision long before that.” 

“Stop.” 

_ Boom! _

Sherlock throws himself down onto the bed – as if the electricity had actually struck him. He is shaking all over, and there is nothing Mycroft wants to do more than to wrap him up in his arms and cuddle with him as he had done for his brother as a child. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft inches closer toward the head of the queen-sized bed. He must persist. “What could possibly make you want to give it all up?” 

Their eyes finally meet. Even in the darkness, he could make out the emotion within them. And… Mycroft knows. 

He knows that look. 

He’s seen it reflected back in the mirror before.

In himself. 

***

Oh fuck. Mycroft knows. 

Damned stupid sentiment. 

Sherlock breaks away from Mycroft’s gaze. 

Why did he tell Malai to let Mycroft in? 

Like how his brother had snuck into his heart all those years ago and stayed there despite Sherlock’s attempts to kick him out, the same has happened here in the physical sense. 

He’s tired of staying away. Where their interactions are limited to Sherlock leaving dishes behind in the sink and Mycroft washing them. Petting the same cat – allowing his fingers to trace the paths that Mycroft’s had forged through Ragnar’s soft fur. Exchanging moves at a glacial pace of a children’s game; a game that Mycroft could have beaten him every time he went first in a predictable fashion, but had refrained from doing so. 

_ Connect-Four  _ is a solved game after all.

The longer Mycroft and he are under the same roof, the worse the yearning becomes. 

Sherlock isn’t the same person who had jumped off Bart’s all those years ago. He’s lonely, hurt and damaged in ways that he would never be able to fully quantify. He’s stronger in ways too. He had to mature quickly throughout the years, living at the edge where a wrong move could have dastardly consequences. And had. Finding the strength of will to push through all his obstacles and to hold himself (barely) together. 

Even life after Belgrade seems surreal to him. Like he had actually died and this is the other side. 

It’s not hell.

Nor heaven. 

It just is.

It is strange – no longer having to wake up and figure who he is, where he is and what he has to do. 

He’s lived a million lives. 

A cardiothoracic surgery trainee one day, infiltrating a Romanian hospital to take out one of Moriarty’s higher ups who had been in need of an aortic valve replacement. A car mechanic the next, trying to track smuggled dope through the back channels. A female tourist – trying to make contact with his next contact – a lecherous politician who had fallen for his disguise hook, line and sinker. His stomach still curls in disgust at some of the passes he had made, and even the overt touches. 

He hasn’t been himself well since he left England. 

Even now, he is Wilhelm to everyone one here in this frozen wasteland – and legally he would never be Sherlock again. 

Sherlock had died in London. Died for his friends who would never know the truth. The whole truth. Not even those who had aided his death-defying leap would know. Sherlock knows from Mycroft’s behaviour at their initial encounter that Mycroft had bought his death too for a while too, and had brought everyone who had known he had still been alive the grim news. 

How did Mycroft react? Sherlock wonders. 

Did he mourn? 

Did he dust himself off and continued toiling for the betterment of Great Britain like a machine? 

And now, his brother is looking at him. There isn’t disgust on Mycroft’s countenance, nor had he fled. The gaze – in the darkness – is what Sherlock would describe as fond. Somewhat melancholic. 

“You’ve suffered so…” Mycroft says, his voice filled with regret. 

“I don’t want your pity.” Sherlock sits up on his bed and looks at his brother, knowing that the darkness will hide the details of his scars. 

“No. I would never.” Mycroft inches closer, leaving Sherlock paralyzed.

Big brother is so close. Sherlock just wants to be in his arms again. Like he had been on the first day in Mycroft’s bed. 

“Lock.” His brother utters with a meaning that seems to warm something in Sherlock’s chest. There is something delicate about his words. Tender. “Would you trust me?” Mycroft swallows, uncomfortable with putting sentiment into words. “To not hurt you? To not break your…” 

***

With great care, Mycroft gently places his hand against Sherlock’s face, his palm feeling the rough edges of scars that mar his chin. The left side of Sherlock’s face had escaped the brunt of scarring. His thumb lightly strokes the smooth skin over the zygomatic arch. His brother stays rigid under his caresses, but doesn’t move away – his eyes still fixed warily upon Mycroft. 

Mycroft doesn’t know how long he stays like this. The pads of his fingers memorizing every minute detail of Sherlock’s face. 

The power still remains out, and Mycroft finds himself wondering how long it would take for it to be restored. Presumably after the blizzard which was still roaring outside the walls. He can’t imagine going outside in this weather, one would get lost in about five steps. 

Then slowly he feels the weight of Sherlock’s head lean against his hand. Little brother’s eyes are closed now. There is a pained expression on Sherlock’s face and only when something wet registers against the skin of Mycroft’s hand, he realizes that his brother is silently crying. 

“God, Lock – don’t cry.” 

Mycroft has a holy horror of tears. Sherlock’s tears in particular. He hasn’t seen his brother cry in decades. But his brother doesn’t react, but simply lets the wetness run against his face. All Mycroft could do is continue sitting there, catching the drops following the course of gravity. 

Eventually his other hand finds itself in Sherlock’s roughened one. Sherlock had done a lot of things when he had been taking down Moriarity’s network. Hard labour for instance – he could read it from the calluses and scars on his brother’s hand. His brother would have a lot of stories to tell if he chose, or he would be like the soldiers and agents that had gone on missions, seen too much and clam up – taking both their tales and suffering to the grave. These individuals feel out of place once they’ve returned home – and Mycroft can understand some of the other reasons why Sherlock had chosen not to. 

“Mrowl?” There is a dip in the bed as Ragnar leaps upon it – seeming to break the spell that had fallen in the space. 

Sherlock blinks – removing his head from Mycroft’s hand. He uses his own free hand to wipe away at the moisture of his face, before turning his attention to the intruder. 

“Yow-row!” 

Ragnar paws at Sherlock’s knees, and Sherlock sighs. 

“You are hungry.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse. 

“Yow!” 

Ragnar turns around and waves his tail before leaping off the bed with grace. He bounds to the door and calls out “Meow-ow-ow!” when he realizes that none of the humans had moved since his demand. 

“Little dictator.” Mycroft remarks.

Sherlock’s lips curve slightly into a smile filling Mycroft’s chest with something lighthearted. Something warm – that seems to resemble – hope?

***

Sherlock’s hand hasn’t left Mycroft’s since they had gone downstairs with Ragnar leading the way. Before they had left the room, Sherlock had reached for his phone on the nightstand. Little brother had unlocked it, opened an app and pressed a button. In a few short seconds, the light in the house had flickered back to life, the filter in the aquarium had started running again and the hum of the central heating had returned. 

A backup generator. 

Mycroft had shaken his head and wisely said nothing. 

Ragnar is waiting by his weighted bowl, eagerly anticipating food. Sherlock reaches upward for a tin of fancy cat food – Salmon and Chicken in Gravy. He pulls the lid off with his free hand and brings it over to Ragnar, whose tail is now impatiently thumping against the tiled floor. 

“Mrow.” 

The food and juices fall into the bowl with a plop, and Ragnar begins devouring his dinner with a relish. 

“Spoiled.” Mycroft muses.

Sherlock shrugs as he bins the tin. “He deserves to be.” He then adds quietly. “He gets me out of bed on days that I feel like I can’t go on. He makes me laugh. Cuddles with me when things are… difficult. As stupid as it sounds – he gives me a purpose on days where I feel like I have none. Malai and her brother visit the house frequently for him. He makes things… less lonely.”

“Oh… Lock.” 

Mycroft wants to hug him, but he doesn’t know if Sherlock would be receptive. 

His brother turns to look at him, his eyes darkened with some unfathomable emotion. The tension between reminds him of the times before Sherlock had leapt off Bart’s. But then, he remembers how Sherlock had readily thrown himself into his arms at their first meeting – which seemed more fantasy than reality in the days that followed, and summoning his courage, he wraps his free arm around Sherlock’s all-too-slender waist. His brother’s eyes widen and he goes readily. Sherlock’s hand slips free from Mycroft’s and he wraps both his arms tightly around Mycroft’s torso, as if Mycroft would disappear if he let go. 

Sherlock feels warm and solid in Mycroft’s arms, his face buried against Mycroft’s shoulder. Unlike Sherlock’s fierce grip, Mycroft holds him gently, his hand lightly rubbing Sherlock’s back – the palmer surface picking up the edges of scars that seemed to decorate his back. God. This isn’t from the blast… the pattern of injury isn’t quite right. If Mycroft is reading it correctly, this had been the result of torture. 

Fuck. What did Sherlock go through in that last cell in Serbia? Before he had blown it to smithereens? Hell? His intelligence on Sherlock’s last actions to decimate Moriarty’s network had been spotty at best. Turning his neck slightly, he presses a kiss against his brother’s curls and he could feel Sherlock relax further in his arms. 

“I missed you.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled against Mycroft’s shoulder. “So much.”

“I did too, little brother.” 

***

When Sherlock tentatively looks up, he is first struck by the fond gaze that Mycroft directs at him. It’s different from the way his brother had looked at him before. Openly affectionate in all the ways that Sherlock had dreamed of. 

The second thing he notices is how haggard Mycroft looks. 

His brother looks like he had been run into the ground despite having spent a week ‘relaxing’ here. He had evidently lost weight, gained it back and then some before dropping it all again. There is evidence that Mycroft had taken up smoking again, and had quit upon entering Sherlock’s smokefree abode. 

God. He hadn’t noticed it the first time when he had been watching Mycroft sleep.

“God, My – I am so sorry.” 

Sherlock hadn’t expected that his second fake death would affect his brother so badly. Yet, all the details are there for his observation – that Mycroft had clearly mourned and suffered. 

“Don’t.” Mycroft warns, his tone harsh. “Let’s not talk about anything difficult. Not yet.”

Sherlock nods. He could live with that. For every difficult piece of baggage Mycroft had, he probably had ten pieces more. He will enjoy this for as long as it lasts. And he could trust his brother – for he could have sworn earlier that Mycroft had promised not to break his heart (even though he hadn’t said the last word out loud). 

However, he doesn’t know how that would work. Mycroft would have to leave eventually and he would be by himself… again. 

His brother pecks fondly at Sherlock’s scarred cheek, and says. “Let’s have dinner.” 

***

By the time they had cleared their dinner (reheated wonton soup, fried tempura-battered prawns and stir-fried vegetables) and washed the dishes, the blizzard outside had died down. Sherlock brings his brother to the alcove on the second floor landing, where a large bay window looks out toward the cliffs and the sea. 

The cozy space has a wide ledge covered in cushions and pillows, and is all-together a comfortable spot to read, think or even curl up for a nap. It’s also a beautiful vantage point to see the Aurora Borealis when it dances across the night skies. Tonight the skies are remarkably clear – the twinkles of countless stars shining high above them. The roar of the frigid sea crashes far below them, and Sherlock would love to take his brother out and see the cold beauty of the shore lit by starlight. 

He sits next to his brother. 

It’s suddenly awkward again. They had talked about innocent subjects over dinner. Nothing about Sherlock’s former life. Or his (mis)adventures abroad. Sherlock feels like a teenage girl dealing with her first crush. He knows what he wants, but he is unable to find the means to achieve it. As odd as it is, he feels uncharacteristically shy. Mycroft had initiated everything earlier, but now he seems to be deep in thought. 

There are things that Sherlock had found himself dreaming about. He’s never been in a relationship, but oh – how he wants! Of cuddles and tender kisses. Waking up to his brother’s smiling face everyday. Snogging sessions and tenderness under the starlit skies. Doing everyday domestic things together. Spoiling his kitty-cat rotten. 

He wonders if Mycroft ever had dreams as he did. 

Of the two of them together. 

He has been too lonely. For far too long. 

He doesn’t even know how to act around people anymore. He isn’t Sherlock anymore, not the relatively innocent and seemingly invincible one that had left Mycroft’s house all those years ago. Whatever that remained of that man is hidden deep in the furthest recesses of his brain, buried by the deluge of roles he’s had to play. 

It’s easy to act. To put on a personality and make decisions based on the parameters of the characters he plays. Otherwise, the only he is himself is in his dreams and fantasies. Confining himself within himself. Hiding himself from his enemies, which had partially failed during his last task in Serbia. They hadn’t known who he was, but they had known enough that he is a spy in their midst. Even now, months – or perhaps even a year now since Belgrade, he is still in hiding, and he despairs that he would ever find all the relevant parts of himself.

The stars. As Sherlock had roamed across the globe, the constellations had appeared, disappeared and reappeared in different spots in the sky. The one constant had been the moon. Sherlock would look at it from time to time, and wonder if Mycroft is looking at the moon too? 

He lets his hand slowly slide from his lap, and with utmost care, he allows his fingers to slip into Mycroft’s own loosely held hand. A gasp almost escapes him when Mycroft’s warm hand almost instantaneously curls against his own digits. His brother turns his head towards him and the barest tracest of a smile can be seen on his lips. 

_His brother loves him. Mycroft loves him._ _His brother had mourned him. Missed him._ Sherlock can feel his heart beat a bit faster. _His brother had sought him out and found him at the end of the world._ All these feelings, these realizations are reflected in Sherlock’s own eyes and Mycroft reaches over with his other hand and this time, it is Sherlock who curls his fingers around his brother’s smooth hand. 

The hand of someone who sits behind a desk all day and wields the power of the pen. A gentle hand that brings the touch that Sherlock so desperately craved.

They could have conversations like this. Sherlock realizes. When he had been a toddler or even older, sometimes he would sit in Mycroft’s lap, and neither would speak. There had been no need to. They had known each other so well – felt connected to each other in such a way that words are useless between them. Their parents had found it unnerving, although they never had said a word. 

Of course, that all disappeared as they grew older, trading in their brotherly affection for each other with passive aggression, pointed and barbed repartee and resentment. Sherlock had no desire to return to the old ways, and he could see Mycroft give him a barely perceptible nod, agreeing with him readily. 

_ Four years is too long. _ Sherlock can see it in the blues of Mycroft’s eyes. 

It’s a lifetime. 

And then Sherlock is struck by visuals of Mycroft combing through foreign newsprint trying to track Sherlock’s movements during the last few months – for it had been necessary for him to disappear completely at the end to accomplish their objectives which grew more and more difficult with each cell that Sherlock had taken down; his brother nursing a tumbler of expensive scotch in his study – looking a million kilometres away; Mycroft having a meeting at Whitehall – barely paying attention to the topic of discussion; an ashen-looking Mycroft getting out of a government car and walking up to a house – their parent’s house – evidently the messenger of Sherlock’s demise. Molly fleeing from Mycroft to grieve after she had desperately looked at his brother’s eyes one last time to ensure that Sherlock’s death hadn’t been another clever trick. 

The imagery in his mind supplanted by the pain in his brother’s eyes is immediately interrupted when Ragnar sneaks his way in between them, demanding attention. 

***

Mycroft hadn’t meant to transmit his suffering to his brother, but he couldn’t help it. He had needed Sherlock to see how much he mattered. Partway through, his brother had winced, but didn’t look away. Things are both simultaneously easier and harder; now that he knows what Sherlock truly feels about him. His thoughts are put on hold when the light patter of feet lands on the ledge. Both Sherlock and he reflexively reach out to stroke the lone furry resident of the house and his brother gives him a crooked grin when their hands meet on the back of the meowing cat. Adding some much needed levity to their serious turn of conversation(?). 

It’s a beautiful sight to see Sherlock smiling. Mycroft strongly suspects his brother doesn’t do much of that these days. He finds himself laughing quietly when Sherlock places one hand down on the cushion which prompts Ragnar to place one of his forepaws on top of Sherlock’s. It’s cute beyond words. Sherlock then pulls his other hand away from Mycroft’s grip and places it on top. Ragnar copies him and they repeat this pointless(?) game for several cycles until the cat gets bored and jumps off the ledge – his tail held high as he lands before scurrying off back downstairs. 

His brother’s eyes seem to brighten (even his damaged one) after Ragnar had left. Who is entertaining who? Mycroft muses as Sherlock shuffles closer toward him. Without hesitation, Mycroft hooks his arm around his brother’s torso – bringing him as close as physically possible. He had sensed Sherlock’s shyness. His brother seems to fall readily into his embrace, and they spend the rest of the evening like this under the night sky, cuddling. 

***

The soft silky texture of his bed sheets. The familiar purrs of a cat nearby. Sherlock grasping at the tendrils of a lovely dream. What else is new? Eating dinner with Mycroft. Doing the dishes – Mycroft wiping and Sherlock drying them before placing them in the rack. Cuddling with Mycroft under the stars. Teasing Ragnar with Mycroft. His first kiss. It had felt so good – feeling big brother’s lips against his own. Playfully chasing each other to bed with his cat underfoot. Mycroft waiting for him in bed after Sherlock had taken a shower – watching the koi swim in the tank across the room in his fancy pyjamas. His brother spooning him before he had fallen asleep. 

God it had felt so real. 

_ Don’t leave me. _ Sherlock pleads as he does every time he has such a visitation from dream-Mycroft, feeling a tear fall from his eye.

His nose picks it up first. The smell of something different. The expensive notes of bergamot and breakfast tea that his brother likes in his cologne and hair-care products. And there is a comfortable weight against his torso and he is pressed up against something warm and living and breathing – his brother! 

He wipes at his eye before slowly turning around. The room is pitch black. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered with closing the thick curtains – knowing that it would still be dark when he wakes in the morning. Winter is coming. He can see the silhouette of his brother – his chest rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. 

It hadn’t been a dream! 

His brother shifts, opening an eye. 

“Sherlock?” He murmurs, his arms rearranging themselves around Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t speak, but burrows himself against his brother’s chest – inhaling his scent. 

***

“Wow.” Mycroft remarks after he struggles a bit to open the front door, causing snow to spill inside. “Does it always snow this much?” The snow drifts easily reach up to Mycroft’s waist. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s hardly ever snowed since I’ve come here. Perhaps…” 

His brother drifts off, looking wistful. It’s not hard to deduce what Sherlock’s thoughts are.

_ Perhaps it’s a sign. That you should stay. _

Mycroft knows that he can stay at maximum a month here, before Anthea starts crumbling under the weight of incompetency that surrounds her back at Whitehall. 

He would have to do some thinking. About what he really wants. And they would need to have a serious conversation. But alas, there are several lovely weeks they could spend together here. 

The scampering of paws detract him from his sobering thoughts, and Ragnar looks bewildered by the mess of white that is scattered all over the floor and blocking the doorway. He pounces into the snow drift, and Mycroft has to stifle his giggles at the silly cat when he tries to get out of the mess, only sinking further with his squirming. 

Sherlock merely shakes his head and fishes Ragnar from the snow. The cat shakes himself – clearing his fur from the snow before sending a death glare to his newfound enemy and running off. 

***

“I love you.” Sherlock says quietly a few days later.

“I know.” Mycroft draws his brother closer, letting his own cheek brush against Sherlock’s scarred one. “But it’s nice to hear you say it, brother dear.” 

“Do you –” 

“Of course I do.” Mycroft takes Sherlock’s hand in his free one, looking intently at his brother. “Love you. I think I did before you left. I just… didn’t realize it. When I got news of your passing… it… almost destroyed me. I dreamt of you, you know. Not every night, but enough that I would rush home from Whitehall and sleep. And hope that you would find me.” He takes a breath. “It made me want to believe. That there was something waiting for us after death. I thought it was completely unfair – that you would be gone when I finally realized what you meant to me. I wanted to, you know –” Mycroft swallows awkwardly, looking away – glancing at the window where the sun is shining. 

“You wanted to follow…”

“I did.”

“And in your dreams –”

“It was filled with mundanities. Us doing normal everyday things. Like we do now. It would bore you to the extreme. I loved it. Just as I love spending time with you now. We were on the streets of France for one. Sharing ice cream.” 

“I had them too. I still have them. And everytime I do, I beg for you to stay.” Sherlock then sighs, dejected. “I am not enough to keep you here.” Seeing Mycroft about to refute the statement, he continues. “No, don’t tell me otherwise. We both know it’s true. And I would never keep you. You would resent me at the end, not to mention that it would kill me to see you unhappy.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft lets out an exhalation. 

“You’ve never asked me to return with you.” Sherlock has a pensive look on his face. 

“You wouldn’t. In my dreams, you told me. And I can deduce that the answer is the same… You called me Mycie in your dreams…”

“I thought you hated that. Being called Mycie. As I hated being called Lockie.” 

“I never minded it from you.” Mycroft admits. 

“But you are right. I will never go back. Where our love is illegal. I spent four years pretending – Mycroft! I can’t do it anymore! Won’t!”

“Not even your friends –”

“No, Mycroft – that ship has sailed. I am sure everyone has moved on. I thought you did too. Better to let the people closest to me remember how I was.” 

Ragnar walks past them in the foyer, ignoring them to sit in close proximity to the front door. Sherlock takes a step back and there is a knock at the door seconds later. 

“It’s Malai.” Sherlock deduces, as Mycroft heads for the door. 

***

This is truly otherworldly. Mycroft thinks to himself as he snaps on the skis to his boots. His brother had already done so, and has a small pack on his back containing provisions for their hike to the cliffs. 

“It’s not always like this.” Sherlock hands Mycroft a pair of poles when he stands up – feeling a bit wobbly. “When I first came here, it was spring. And it was beautiful. Not like this, but the flora tentatively poking out through the harsh terrain. The wildflowers – Mycroft – I thought that if life could flourish here, that there would be hope for me.”

It’s not as cold today as the day Mycroft had arrived at Sherlock’s. Nevertheless, he is still warmly bundled up, as is his brother. He admires the grace that his brother is able to use his skis, not even bothering with the poles which he holds in his axilla – limp aside. 

The sun is so bright that they have to use ski-goggles to prevent from being blinded by the light reflecting back from the snow. His brother slows his strides to allow Mycroft to catch up – and it takes him several minutes to get the technique down. He allows Sherlock to break the snow for him, and he follows closely behind. 

They travel along the cliffs high above the coast – where sea water mercilessly pounds against the shoreline. Birds fly to and fro – an occasional sighting as many have departed for their annual visit to warmer climes. Such a harsh landscape, yet its beauty is awe-inspiring. 

The waves calm the further they go – until they are viewing an enormous glacier, the snow various shades of blue, grey and white. 

“The birthplace of the bergs. As the natives say.” Sherlock explains. 

They stand in silence for a few moments before a loud  _ crack _ is heard, and an enormous chunk of ice breaks off the glacier and makes its way toward the sea. 

“There aren’t many animals here –”

“They don’t hang around near settlements. There’s foxes, hares, seals, reindeer and walruses. Very rarely there might be a polar bear. More common, you know – in the recent years. Their real estate is shrinking, Mycroft. Some of the villagers carry guns now when they go out into the bush. Polar bears are dangerous.” 

“You don’t.”

“I’ve had enough violence, brother mine. Malai is always scolding me. She brought me a gun, but I don’t take it with me when I go out into the bush. Mrs. Hudson would be happy.” 

Great. Another thing to worry about. His brother getting eaten by a desperate polar bear when he gets out of the house. 

And… Mrs. Hudson – hasn’t been the same since Sherlock had left. It had been rather pitiful, but Mycroft knows that she had seen Sherlock as the son she’s never had.

“You are thinking again.” Sherlock looks at him accusingly – Mycroft could tell even though his scarf obscured most of his face.

“Have you met me?” 

“True.” Sherlock nods sagely, before pulling down his pack and offering Mycroft a thermos of hot tea. “A krone for your thoughts?”

Mycroft takes the thermos, unscrews the lid and sighs as the hot steam warms him up. “Was thinking about our two-body problem.”

“Oh?” Sherlock is busy ripping open a protein bar. 

“You wouldn’t have to move back to England, little brother – but what about somewhere closer? Less frigid? France perhaps? Somewhere quiet. Warmer. An idyllic spot that you can carry out your newfound hobbies. I can find you a housekeeper. That way I can visit weekly –”

“I-I would have to think about it, Mycroft.” Sherlock replies. 

“Of course.” Mycroft passes the thermos back to his brother and helps himself to one of Malai’’s brownies that she had made the day before from Sherlock’s pack. “Take all the time you need.” He then says fondly. “But not too long, I would like to see you sooner rather than later – Sherlock.”

“I know. Me too.” Sherlock says as another chunk of ice breaks down from the glacier and crashes downwards. 

***

“I am not ready.” Sherlock says – his eyes darkened with regret as Mycroft reaches to undo a button of his shirt. “I am –”

“Don’t apologize. I should have asked.” Mycroft leans over to kiss him, and they both sink into it. Sherlock’s lips are soft on one side and slightly rough on the left – residual scarring from the blast. Nevertheless it is sweet – and Mycroft treasures all the kisses that they’ve shared. “And… it’s okay – Sherlock. Even if you never want anything beyond cuddles and kisses – I am fine with that. I love you.” 

“I am also not ready for you to leave.” 

“Neither am I.” Mycroft replies back, feeling his own eyes brim suddenly with tears. 

The days he has left with his brother could be counted with one hand. Even less than that. 

Everything is beautiful, sweet and new. And how gorgeously Sherlock had opened up to him over the last two weeks or so. Malai had mentioned it yesterday, making not so subtle allusions about the nature of his relationship with Sherlock. But it is nice – Mycroft had to admit – that he could hold his Sherlock’s hand and kiss his lips without worrying that someone knows that they are brothers. Because legally, Sherlock isn’t anymore. 

They cling onto each other – each not wanting to leave the other. Mycroft fears that on the day of his departure, he would have to sneak out while Sherlock is sleeping in order to make it to the airport on time. 

“You might have to.” Sherlock whispers hoarsely, having figured out Mycroft’s thought. “If I get my arms around you – you aren’t going anywhere.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft begins with a desperation in his voice. “If I… start the process of retiring – would you come to France? Please?” It’s only right that he gives up something, if he’s asking Sherlock to give up his newfound but hard-earned roots out here in this desolate land. “I don’t think I can go months without seeing you again –”

“Would you… really do that for me?” Sherlock is looking at him in awe. 

“Lock. Living without you – it’s awful. It was awful before I came here. Downright unbearable when I thought you were blown to Hell. And I can’t – I can’t imagine how it would be now, when I know that –” Mycroft looks away. “That I love you and you love me. That I won’t be able to be with you face-to-face everyday. That I won’t go to sleep with you in my arms every night.” 

“I will then, Mycie.” Sherlock says after a long moment. “I will see you in France the next time we meet.”

***

Just as Mycroft had predicted, he leaves Sherlock at the dead of night – quietly slipping out of bed. They had agreed – no goodbyes. 

He dresses up and collects his possessions while Ragnar looks on – his eyes staring accusingly at him. Even though he hasn’t left the house yet, he already misses Lock. Terribly. Every particle of his being is screaming at him to return to bed and forget about his life back in England. 

Anthea would never forgive him if he bailed on her like this. And Mycroft owes a lot to her – for finding Sherlock in the first place. To make this all possible for him. 

“I am sorry, Ragnar. But I will see you both soon. I promise.” Mycroft says quietly at the door.

“Mrowr.” Ragnar offers skeptically.

“Look after him, would you?” 

“Yow!” The cat sniffs disdainfully at him, as if saying:  _ What have I been doing all this time? _

“Don’t be too mad at me please. It’s hard enough leaving.”

“Yow-ow.” Ragnar turns his back toward him and walks away.

It is with a heavy heart that Mycroft trudges to his rented snowmobile after closing the door carefully behind him. 

_ Goodbye Sherlock. _

He blows a kiss in the general direction of Sherlock’s bedroom before switching on the engine.

***

Mycroft is leaving. 

Sherlock had limped to the window in the spare bedroom – where Mycroft had initially slept the first week. A wasted week. Sherlock had been feeling too damaged, too unsure – too scared to approach his brother that week after revealing himself in the dramatic way on the first day. 

It’s too late now to have regrets. 

Tears flow quietly from his eyes as he hears the snowmobile start, and he watches until Mycroft disappears off into the distance. 

“Meow?” Ragnar butts at his feet, and Sherlock picks up his housemate – cuddling his furry body to his chest – barely assuaging the newfound void in his heart.

_ It’s just you and I against the world. _


	4. Epilogue

At first, Mrs. Hudson had been offended that Sherlock’s bigwig of a brother had offered her a job to be a housekeeper somewhere in France. As if the former wife of a notorious crime lord needed such a job to make ends meet! 

The very idea of it!

But then, something in her gut told her to take the job – and isn’t France just lovely at this time of year? Not to mention in a charming little village right next to the sea? In warmer climes that reminded her of her happy girlhood days in Florida? 

The salary offered had been generous, and she hadn’t been quite herself since her darling – Sherlock – had leapt off Bart’s all those years ago. 

Everyone else formerly in their Baker Street circle seems to have moved on, but she hasn’t. 

John had married his Mary. Molly had brought along her Sherlock-look-alike of a boyfriend to the reception. What’s his name again? Ah. Peter! They are engaged now. That handsome DI comes by now and then to check up on her, but there’s evidently someone new in his life too. And, Mr. Holmes – is just as he always is. A cold fish – that one. An opposite of her darling boy – oh! 

Just thinking about him makes her want to pull out her handkerchief and have a good cry. 

The neighbourhood is rustic. With the all charm of the Old World – although Mrs. Hudson could tell that many of its houses had been taken apart and rebuilt with modern-day amenities while attempting to preserve the old timey feel over the last decade or so. 

There is the gentle lull of the sea nearby, and the hilly nature of the cobblestone streets she walks upon is making her weary. 

Perhaps she should have accepted Mr. Holmes’ offer of a driver when she had arrived at the airport at the crack of dawn, but she had been determined to explore things at her own pace. 

She might be old, but certainly – she’s not dead! There’s still life in these sprightly legs, thank you very much!

There is so much flora blooming at this time of year – perfuming the air with their sweet earthy scents. The abundance of the lush greenery in the gardens she walks past. Little flowers climbing up old-fashioned iron-wrought gates. Wisteria hanging from the older stone houses. 

And finally, at the end of the row of houses – is the one she had been looking for. The garden had been left to grow wild, although the house itself is new enough not to have plants growing amok on its walls. It is a comfortable spot for a vacation or a retirement. Perhaps a tad too rural for Mrs. Hudson’s more sophisticated urbanite tastes – but hey – she is willing to give change a go. 

Who is her mysterious client? 

Mr. Holmes had been frustratingly tight-lipped on the matter. Would she be expected to air out her long-neglected français? She had spent her time in the plane going through a handbook:  _ Essential French for Travelers. _

Yet it is this mystery that had made her all the more keen to take the post. 

She strides to the door and with a moment’s hesitation, she presses on the doorbell. 

The door opens after several heartbeats. 

***

Mrs. Hudson is a sight for sore eyes! 

Sherlock’s arm shoots out quickly, stabilizing her before her wobbly legs could collapse. 

Despite his new shorter haircut, the ratty clothes (for he had been assembling Ragnar’s new aerial playground) and his scars – he could tell that Mrs. Hudson had recognized him within seconds. But remembering that they are outside, he coolly states. “Bonjour madame, I take it that you are my new housekeeper.”

There is a bit of confusion in her eyes before she replies – always a quick reader of situations. “I am, indeed. You are –?”

“Faris.” Sherlock says quietly. “Myc has sent me your things. I have already placed them in your room. Won’t you come in?” 

“Faris.” She repeats back, the syllables uncertain in her mouth. 

Sherlock pulls her in and shuts the door behind her. He is a mess of emotions. Mycroft hadn’t told him who he had hired as  _ their _ housekeeper, but he hadn’t expected this! 

He had moved in barely a week ago, and he hasn’t seen his brother in the flesh since their separation over a year ago. They had been in touch. Texts. Video-calls over a secure network. Old-fashioned letters and postcards written in harmless ciphers and obscure languages for their mutual amusement. 

It hadn’t been easy. This long-distance thing. 

Malai had cried at the airport just before he had left to catch his flight to France with promises that she would come visit him soon. Sherlock had spent many a lonely night weeping and dreaming of his brother – fervently wishing that the passage of time would just move a little quicker so that he could be in France. And yet, when Malai had finally left him at the airport – Sherlock had realized at that very moment that he would miss the icy lands that had been his home.

“Mrs. Hudson.” 

He bows his head after quickly glancing over at her, noting how much older she looks since he saw her last. How frail! It startles him greatly. She had grieved for him – he knows from the sadness that seems to be etched all over her body. In the gravitas of how she moves. 

Like how a mother would mourn her only child. The type of grief that stays with one forever, and time would only make it easier to deal with rather than cure. 

God. He can see why Mycroft had chosen her for this task. 

It would be good. For the both of them. 

“Sherlock.” She says with more confidence. Her arms are outstretched. “My boy! My darling boy! I missed you!” 

They are hugging. 

Sherlock’s vision is blurring and he suspects that Mrs. Hudson is tearing too. The flowery scent of her perfume and the aromas of the café that she had stopped at before arriving here reminds him of Baker Street. Of the place that he had once called home. He could almost smell the London rain, feel the old Persian carpet that had adorned their living room floor beneath his feet and see himself standing in front of that window where he had liked to spend his day thinking. Perhaps with a fag betwixt his fingers, its smoke trailing languidly upwards – escaping through the open window. 

“I missed you too.”

“How – how could you do this to us! We all mourned – Sherlock… and – and your brother – he knew! All this time!” There is fury in her voice, tempered with the relief and happiness of seeing him again.

“It’s a long story, Mrs. H – I can tell you when we are a bit more comfortable –”

“And you – you are never going back to –”

Sherlock steps out of her embrace and shakes his head. “I won’t –”

“Oh – Sherlock – your face!” Mrs. Hudson remarks in dismay. “And – your eye –”

“I have it on good authority that I scare small children.” Sherlock says with as much humour as he possibly could – even though knowing that people cannot stand to look at him hurts. He had taken so many things for granted before his Fall. “But, come – Mrs. H – let me show you to your room! You will love it – it has the most lovely view of the garden –”

***

Oh. How her Sherlock had suffered! 

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head after she has set her beautifully furnished room to rights. She had in particular appreciated the antique rocking chair – and the cozy and inviting nature of her room. 

Her boy limps too – like John had when he had first moved into Baker Street. But this isn’t one of those limps that has to do with the mind – but rather physical trauma. 

She can hear the sounds of hammering happening down below and goes downstairs to see the odd sight of Sherlock Holmes tackling wood, nails and tools to assemble probably the most elaborate cat(?) playground that she had ever seen. There are ramps and bridges. Boxes with openings. Staircases. Perches. Cozy nooks to sleep in. Amongst other intriguing elements. 

“Mrow?” The cat in question is suddenly underfoot – sniffing at her feet. 

A sleek grey feline with tiger-like stripes. A gorgeous beast. 

Sherlock must really love his cat. Not a hard deduction. 

There are still unopened boxes of Sherlock’s things scattered in the living room, and yet – he is busy putting together amusements for his kitty. Oh. So this means that Sherlock had only moved here recently. Maybe a few days ago. Hm… 

“Ragnar – leave Mrs. H’s feet alone!” Sherlock looks up – and Mrs. Hudson rather appreciates the rumpled handyman look that Sherlock had adopted. 

“It’s not a bother, dear. He is just trying to say hello, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hudson turns her attention back to the cat who is looking at her with the most gorgeous blue eyes. 

“Yow!” Ragnar seems to nod agreeably. 

“Tea?” Sherlock asks, and before Mrs. Hudson could say another word – her boy had disappeared off into the kitchen after putting all the sharp objects away in his heavy duty toolbox where Ragnar couldn’t get at them. 

***

This doesn’t feel real. 

How dark her days had seemed when Sherlock had jumped off Bart’s all those years ago! 

She is sitting at a comfortable dining table with food that Sherlock had made! Sherlock! A simple fish soup with fresh hearty bread. A garden salad with local veggies. A cassoulet with duck that Sherlock had made the day before. A complementary red wine from the local vineyard poured in exquisite long-stemmed wine glasses. Strawberries and cream for dessert. 

Her Sherlock seemed so old as he talked – telling her about his move here from somewhere cold and barren. Her blood runs cold when Sherlock discusses Moriarty – and how the heinous man had three snipers trained on herself, John and the handsome DI. How Sherlock had no choice but to leap – and begin a dangerous journey to take down everything that the man set up. She knows that Sherlock had left out most of the sordid details, with the exception of the explosion that had got him at the end. 

“You – you faked your death again – afterwards.” 

It made sense. She had always wondered why Mr. Holmes had kept paying for Sherlock’s rent. Denial? She had thought. But no – if his little brother wasn’t dead – it made perfect sense. 

And then, almost three years later, Mr. Holmes had come to her personally – looking very much like his world had ended. It had been the only time she had seen the man so emotional! He had finally terminated the lease, and spent a long time upstairs dealing with his brother’s possessions. Days. He had looked as awful and lost as John had appeared just after Sherlock had jumped. 

Perhaps – worse. 

She knows now that Mr. Holmes had thought at that time that Sherlock had died for real. 

“I did. Yes. I was badly injured in Serbia. It wasn’t just the wounds and the loss of vision in my eye, but the infection that set in afterwards. Sepsis. I almost lost the leg too – but I guess fortunately – I did not.” 

“That’s not all.” 

Sherlock looks taken aback at her words. He puts his fork down. He stands up and offers her a selection of cheeses from a wooden board. A cheap distraction technique if she’s ever seen one. 

She looks expectantly at him like a mother trying to force a confession from their errant child. 

“No.” Sherlock is toying with the strawberries on his plate after putting down the board. “That is not all.” His voice didn’t seem to be coming from him, but from somewhere far far away. 

There is something so lost. So sad about the way Sherlock looks at that moment. If Mrs. Hudson had been of the fanciful imaginative sort – she would have thought it was an affair of the heart. Maybe John? She had always hoped, but now that ship has sailed. The good doctor had married his bride and now has his daughter. 

The former flatmate didn’t even want to hear a mention of Sherlock the last few times she had seen him. 

But war (for this had been a war of sorts) changes people. Mrs. Hudson knows enough about the cruelties of the world, having been a passive participant when her Frank had started climbing the ranks of an enormous drug operation to become the big boss. 

She thinks about the isolated arctic lands that Sherlock had lived in just a week ago and the quiet (but much warmer) locale here. 

Sherlock needs peace and quiet now. Time with his kitty. 

Yet – he seems so painfully lonely even in her presence. 

Love. 

That’s probably what her poor boy needs. 

And not of the maternal variety she could offer him. 

***

Over the next few weeks, Mrs. Hudson decides that keeping house for Sherlock isn’t a hardship at all. 

Sherlock helps out here and there, taking over certain chores when her joints start aching without a word. She bakes and cooks.

Sherlock had almost cried over the first tray of freshly baked ginger nuts that she had made. 

Sometimes she catches Sherlock smiling at his phone, and she muses to herself that Sherlock must have a lover squirreled away somewhere. And there are moments that Sherlock looks so dejected that not even Ragnar could make him smile. During those times, Mrs. Hudson notices that Sherlock spends a lot of time looking out the window, watching the night sky. 

If love is the root of what ails her Sherlock – she wants to drag this unnamed ‘lover’ by his or her ear and throttle them. 

Sherlock refuses to talk more about his time away after the first night. Mrs. Hudson only wishes that she had spent more time asking questions because he had been willing to answer them (or at least most of them) then. She doesn’t understand why Sherlock didn’t return to London after Moriarty’s network had been obliterated. Blown to smithereens. His name had been exonerated months ago, when all the evidence supporting his genius had hit the papers. 

When she had asked him again days later – Sherlock had said.

“It is best that everyone remembers who I was.”

Mrs. Hudson had shook her head. This Sherlock is more thoughtful and stronger in ways that he hadn’t been years ago. Yes, he might be disfigured and injured beyond repair – but his friends (she is sure) would still care for him and value him. 

Then one day, Sherlock (dressed in a nice shirt and a neatly ironed pair of trousers) goes for the front door before the doorbell sounds and flings himself into the arms of another man that Mrs. Hudson could barely see from her vantage point on the stairs. She hears gentle laughter, and sees Sherlock bury his face in the taller man’s shirt. The door shuts behind them – and oh – things slowly click into place. 

Mr. Holmes. 

They are… kissing. 

Their lips gently exploring. There is something so tender about the way their noses rub against each other. Mr. Holmes has his hand in Sherlock’s curls. 

How had she missed this before? 

No. They hadn’t been like this before Sherlock had jumped, but after. This had all the hallmarks of a relationship that is relatively new. Nascent. When they separate, she catches a glimpse of Mr. Holmes’ eyes and they look at Sherlock as if he is the only thing that has ever mattered. 

She would never give them away. And Mr. Holmes had known this. Or rather deduced it. Not when Sherlock had given up his life for this – although Mrs. Hudson suspects that Sherlock thought that his brother would never return his affections and decided that it would be better if he disappeared rather than endure unrequited  _ illegal _ love. 

Leave it to her Sherlock to be dramatic like that! 

But, it would take a lot to fool his elder brother – and no doubt Mr. Holmes had gone out to find him. Smiling, she leaves them to it – opting to go finish  _ The Shining _ back in her room. 

***

“Mycie!” 

Sherlock had thrown himself into his arms. Mycroft doesn’t even need to look to know that there are tears glistening in his brother’s eyes, as he could feel the moisture from his own prickle his eyelids. 

Tenderly, he wraps his arms around his brother and lets Sherlock bury his face against his shoulder, allowing himself the privilege of smelling the fragrance of his brother’s freshly washed curls. It’s been over a year since they’ve held each other last – and Mycroft had found himself trapped in nightmares(?) where his sojourn so far up north had been a figment of his imagination. 

But then he would receive a text from Sherlock and the fear would momentarily dissipate. 

“I missed you, Lockie.” 

When the door closes shut behind them, Sherlock’s lips find his. Mycroft kisses slowly, carefully – trying to convey the depths of his feelings. Feelings of which he would flounder desperately to put into words as the months of letter writing had proven. Their tears smear across each other’s face. His brother feels more solid in his arms than he had remembered. The warmth in his heart seems to expand and push against the confines of his chest. 

And all too soon, he needs to draw breath and they break apart – Mycroft’s hand lingering over Sherlock’s heart. 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whispers, his eyes bright with emotion. “I-I don’t want you to –”

“Leave again?” Mycroft smiles somewhat sadly. It is one reason why it had taken so long for him to meet Sherlock again in person. He had wanted to make good on his promise. “I will have to go back to London occasionally, brother mine. Emergencies. Every few months to exert my presence –”

“That’s better than I expected.” Sherlock replies. The gratefulness in his voice doesn’t go unmissed. “You… you did this –”

“No, Sherlock. I didn’t do this just for you. It hurts. You know. To be apart from you.” 

“Mrowr!” Ragnar had appeared from somewhere, pawing at Mycroft’s shoes in greeting. 

“He’s a little obsessed with feet these days.” Sherlock explains, as Mycroft squats down and holds his arms out to the cat.

Ragnar leaps into them and purrs shamelessly when Mycroft scratches his belly. 

“Aw, don’t be jealous, Lock.” Mycroft immediately hooks an arm around his pouting brother’s waist. 

“Not jealous.” Sherlock tries to cross his arms.

Mycroft simply brings Sherlock closer, kissing his scarred cheek as he does so. 

“You are cute when you are.” He teases fondly. 

Sherlock doesn’t dignify the remark with a comment, just content to sag against Mycroft’s torso. 

***

“I love you.” Mycroft turns to his side to look at him, causing the hammock to sway. 

“I know.” Sherlock offers him a small smile. 

It’s a nice summer day. A cool breeze tinged with the scent of the sea blows, offering refreshment. There is the rustling of woodland critters going about their day and the cheery singing of songbirds high above in the trees. 

The days pass quickly, but are filled with happiness in ways that Sherlock could never have imagined. Working in the garden. Taking trips out to the seaside and exploring the regions nearby. Exploring the physical side of their love. The joys of simply being together in the same room while Mycroft works and Sherlock chats online with Malai or Sven. 

He reaches over to grasp his brother’s hand, warm and comforting in his.

“I love you too.” 

They both lean over a little to do a little snogging in the hammock.

“Happy?” Mycroft asks him seriously afterwards. 

Sherlock nods enthusiastically before saying cautiously. “It’s better than I deserve.”

“Oh, Lock – no. You deserve everything.” Mycroft nuzzles against his cheek. His brother asks tentatively. “Do you ever miss –”

“My old life? Before the Fall?” Sherlock then continues. 

“It’s just that you never ask about anyone –”

“Gossiping with Mrs. Hudson again? Ouch!” Sherlock gives his brother an injured look when Mycroft lightly pinches his sensitive side. “Sometimes, Mycie. But I like this. Being with you like this. We could never do this – you know – back there. Not in public.” 

Now here’s an idea! 

They should get married. Sherlock is amazed that this thought had never crossed his mind. Maybe in a year or two. When they are a common fixture in this part of France. Ah. The benefits of being officially dead are numerous. He could take Mycroft’s surname and be a Holmes again on paper. Ragnar could be their flower-cat or ring-bearer. 

Mycroft would be his husband! 

His brother has a large smile on his face when he catches Sherlock idly drawing out his signature multiple times, replacing the ‘Mitchell’ in his name with ‘Holmes’. 

Faris Holmes. 

He had gone by Wilhelm after Serbia, but now that he is here – he goes by his legal first name. Wilhelm is too close to his actual first name anyways. A Germanic form of it. 

Mycroft grabs his hand although he doesn’t speak. Sherlock knows that Mycroft had been following his thought process and the idea had been tucked into a precious corner of his hippocampus. He could tell by the glint in Mycroft’s beautiful blue eyes and the reassuring squeeze of his hand that his brother does not find the idea distasteful. 

And that big brother would be the one who would like to do the proposing. Sherlock is fine with that, as long as he’s not the one wearing the wedding dress to their little private ceremony.

God, if he had returned back to London… they would have to play pretend all over again. Pretend that they despise each other’s guts. Pretend that they didn’t love each other as they do now. Fuck. Sherlock is so sick and tired of pretending. The very idea fills him with revulsion. And that would be a lifelong lie. Any misstep and they would have the book thrown at them – especially with their respective positions in life. 

Imagine that – sneaking in and out of Mycroft’s bed like a mistress! Sure, he had to be Faris Mitchell now, but at least he won’t have to hide his love for his dearest. 

No. Things are better this way. 

Their relationship isn’t perfect by any means. They still bicker over stupid shit. Mycroft is still his big brother – and that can sometimes get too overbearing at times. Even more so if Mrs. Hudson takes Mycroft’s side. And the nagging – Mycroft had been insisting that Sherlock go see a physical therapist for his gait issues, and Sherlock had been refusing. Or rather too lazy to make the phone call. His walk might not be attractive, but it gets him around. 

There also had been the week where Mycroft had gone back to London to oversee some critical legislation, meet with some critically important people and see their parents. Sherlock had moped for days until Mrs. Hudson had dragged him out of the house and taken him to some swanky clubs in Ibiza for a handful of days. 

Sherlock could barely keep up with her. 

Damn. Hudders could really party! 

But, making up is one of Sherlock’s favourite parts about being together.

“Are you happy, Mycie?” He asks, returning the question that Mycroft had used earlier.

“Deliriously so, brother mine.” Mycroft is quick to reassure him, giving him another quick peck. “I was thinking, dear – that we ought to go for a road trip through Provence.”

“That would be nice.” Sherlock stretches out on the hammock. “I was thinking that we ought to get some chickens. Hens. Ragnar will be their guard cat. Or maybe even a beehive or two.” 

“Whatever you want.” Mycroft then adds. “Perhaps run it by Mrs. Hudson first.”

“Of course.” 

Both their phones buzz at the same time. 

Sherlock reaches for his.

_ Dinner is ready. Mrs. H _

They both turn to each other, their eyes radiating affection and so much love. Everything still feels so new, so brilliant and wonderful between them. 

Sherlock slides off the hammock with a bit of help from his brother. 

They both pause for a moment, surveying their idyllic domain before sharing one last kiss under the sun. Hand-in-hand, they walk back to the house, where an adoring kitty awaits them by the sliding door as does a fantastic meal in the company of the most motherly person in Sherlock’s life – who supports and loves them both wholeheartedly.

**_Fin_ **

* * *

**Bonus (Explicit!!!)** ****

In the light of the moon, Mycroft sees Sherlock standing next to their bed. Despite the darkness in the space, he could see the melancholy on his brother’s face. His mind appears to be a world away, and Mycroft wonders if he is carving through the snow in the arctic in his skis, or rather sitting in his armchair back in London – employing the deductive arts. Perhaps he is reliving his experiences of taking down Moriarty. 

It’s hard to tell. 

There is the gentle hum of the filter and bubbling from the air pump in the aquarium as Sherlock’s pair of koi swim languidly through their domain. The chorus of cicadas and the gentle ebb and flow of the sea comes from the open window. 

Mycroft walks the three or so steps to his brother, and casually drapes his arm around his slender waist. It’s not a night for small talk. 

Sherlock turns slightly toward him and rests his head against Mycroft’s clavicle. 

Like in those dreams that Mycroft had had when Sherlock had gone away, there is value in keeping quiet. Not that Sherlock would disappear, but it is just that with touch – Mycroft could express more than he could ever hope to with mere words. The words get in the way. He pulls his brother closer, letting his lips brush a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. 

Sherlock looks up at him then. His eyes bright – their beauty rivals the stars twinkling above in the clear skies. Mycroft cups Sherlock’s cheek, letting his fingers lightly caress a zygomatic arch. He kisses him. Properly. Nipping gently, deepening slowly. 

Since he’s made his permanent residence in France, Mycroft has lost count of how many kisses they’ve shared. And yet – each one is different. Never boring. An invaluable tool for communication. A perfect technique for shutting Sherlock up when he got too lippy. He would never get enough of his Lock’s lovely lips. The cupid’s bow. Even the rough contours of the scars. 

There is love in every touch. Sherlock is only wearing his dressing gown, so Mycroft tugs at his tie, causing the fabric to part. His hands instantly are upon him, mapping out the alabaster skin – reading and interpreting once more the scars etched on his brother’s flesh. Carefully he pushes his brother down upon the bed, letting the moonlight fully shine upon his torso. Sherlock goes willingly; his eyes looking affectionately now at Mycroft. All traces of the melancholy that Mycroft had seen earlier are gone. 

It has been a journey to get to this point. To get his brother comfortable enough to show himself to him. To earn his trust. His heart. To break Sherlock’s habit of hiding himself that he had acquired during his time dismantling Moriarty’s web. 

Mycroft kisses his way down Sherlock’s skin, sucking, nipping, nibbling – careful only to provide pleasure for his poor lover who has experienced too much pain over the years. He earns quiet and dignified moans and whimpers from his brother, the bucking of his hips – his Sherlock’s attempts to seek out more. 

There’s a barrier though that he hasn’t fully breached – to get his brother to lose himself completely to pleasure. There is still something guarded in Sherlock; a wall that Mycroft has spent the last months chipping away at – albeit slowly. 

_ I love you.  _

He thinks fiercely as he places his hands over his brother’s pelvis as he lightly sucks Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. His brother writhes under his skills, but quietly. His fingers find that tightly furled hole, and he could tell that Sherlock wants this today. Sherlock trembles with the  _ snick _ of the lubricant cap, and his writhing intensifies when Mycroft slips his first lubed digit into the tight canal – stimulating him. He prepares him carefully, rubbing his fingers within his brother in all the ways he liked – but it’s clearly not enough. 

He looks up, and their eyes meet. Smouldering irises revealing need.  _ Do it.  _ They demand, and Mycroft crawls on to the bed, letting his fingers slip out of his brother’s arse. They are kissing again, as Mycroft gently guides Sherlock’s hips – rearranging their positions so that his brother can straddle his lap. His own neglected cock is aching – jutting upward and eager to sink into delicious heat. His brother doesn’t break eye contact as he lowers himself – letting his hole rub against the glans of Mycroft’s prick. Heavenly torture. Sherlock then reaches downward and guides Mycroft’s leaking cock into him – and he groans when Sherlock sinks downward – watching the initial discomfort of penetration present itself on Sherlock’s facial features. 

_ God. You are so beautiful. _ Mycroft thinks as he holds his brother, giving him enough leeway to control his descent. He instinctively knows when Sherlock wants him to start fucking him – and Mycroft does – carefully employing his hips, rocking his cock in and out with the slow and steady pace that is life here in the south of France. 

Fuck. How he had dreamed of this! Back in dreary London. 

As he had mentioned to Sherlock many times, his return back to London from the frigid north had been painful. It had hurt to be apart from his brother – and he spent every second of it longing for Sherlock. He would see Dream-Sherlock in his dreams – and they would partake in pleasure in every way. Well. Sometimes. Sometimes his Lock just wanted to cuddle. To kiss. Hold hands under the blooming wisteria. Just spend time with each other – feeling the love radiating from each other in close proximity. Never would he want his dreams to end, but of course, time marches forward and Sherlock would look sadly at him before kissing him – goodbye. Mycroft had woken up with tears in his eyes more often than not. 

The coil of pleasure within Mycroft grows tauter and tauter with every passing second. A familiar journey, but always – so mesmerizing. In the way his brother undulates on his prick. The beautiful flexion and extension of all his musculature. The light from the night sky illuminating the scars that Sherlock bears. His brother is getting close to his peak, and Mycroft fights his own hips to keep the pace – wanting to draw out their mutual pleasure. 

_ Getting close. _ Sherlock gazes at him.  _ Please. More. My. _ And Mycroft obliges, giving them what they both want. And he watches as Sherlock shatters – a keen emits from his pale throat – his neck extends backwards, the moonlight pooling in its hollows – his dear face scrunched in pleasure. He thrusts once, twice, thrice – and finally he gives up his own seed – sending it deep within the depths of his brother with a joyous cry of ‘Sherlock’.

Panting, he falls back against the bed – looking upward at his brother who is also looking at him. Mycroft wants to promise him the world. He wants to never leave their bed again. Leave England to her fate of being mismanaged by the greedy fucks who otherwise run the government. It’s a losing battle after all. 

Might as well let the tide take him out to sea and into his Lockie’s arms.

Sherlock sags against him – their bodies intertwined. Mycroft gently cradles his brother’s body in his arms, pressing another kiss against his forehead. His brother smiles, just as the bed dips – their little four-legged creature has evidently decided that he would rather bunk down with them tonight instead of with Mrs. H. 

“Mrowr?” Ragnar breaks the silence, curling up in the pillows at the head of the bed. 

“We should clean up.” Sherlock speaks first, letting his hand pat Mycroft’s abundant chest fur. 

Mycroft doesn’t move though – too content and sated to do so. 

He feels Sherlock slip through his arms and leave the bed, and he cannot help but whine. His brother comes back with a towel soaked in warm water, and cleans them both off. 

_ Miss me already? _ Sherlock throws the towel onto one of their nightstands and climbs into bed. 

Mycroft kisses his brother’s scarred cheek – once again thanking every deity he knows for giving him this chance. For this seemingly alternative universe that he had walked into. An idyllic paradise with his living brother – who will someday be his husband. 

He replies softly. “Always.” 


End file.
